
Class TA'lfesM 

Book ./VU? 

Copyright N° 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



HOW TO 

APPRECIATE THE DRAMA 



The medallion embossed upon the cover and impressed 
upon the title page is the device of the drama society, 
whose courtesy in loaning it to the publishers is gratefully 
acknowledged. 



FRONTISPIECE 




E- 13- fe5<U>"irM2£I£:?>*r JITL2A M-A.asIL.OW 



Photograph by courtesy of Underwood & Underwood, New York 



HOW TO APPRECIATE 
THE DRAMA 



An Elementary Treatise on 
Dramatic Art 



By 

Thomas Littlefield Marble, A.B., LL.B. 




HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 

3 I ~33-35 West 15TH Street New York City 






Copyright, 1914, by 
HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 



MAY -fr 19 14 



#, 



©CI.A369941 
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r 



TO 

MY MOTHER 



TABLE OF 
CONTENTS 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



CHAPTER I 

INTRODUCTION 

PAGE 

The Botanist — Analysis of the Dramatic Flower — The Aim of 

this Treatise 21 



CHAPTER II 

THE DEVELOPMENT OF DRAMATIC FORMS 

Origin of the play Impulse — The Evolution of the Greek Drama 
— The Source of the English Drama — Early Methods of 
Dramatic Presentation — Origin of the Pageant — The Build- 
ing of Theatres 27 

CHAPTER III 

STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 

The Unities — The Influence of the Playhouse on Dramatic Struc- 
ture — The Plot: Its Source and Form — Methods of Plot 
Development 37 

CHAPTER IV 

NATURALNESS AND HEIGHTENED EFFECTS 

Prose as the Natural Vehicle of Expression — The Substitution 
of Action for Soliloquy — Methods of Introducing Light, 
Music, Tumult, and other Emotional Stimuli — Human- 
izing Methods — Incredulous Events Rendered Natural by 
Anticipatory Allusion — The Introduction of Objects ... 47 



12 TABLE OF CONTENTS 

CHAPTER V 

ECONOMY AND RETENTION OF INTEREST 

PAGE 

Economy Applied to Characters, Objects, and Events — Contrast 
and Conflict as Dramatic Principles — Popular Appeal in the 
Choice and Treatment of the Theme — The Importance of 
Action — The Duty of Playgoers to Dramatist and Actors . . 65 

CHAPTER VI 

AN ANALYTICAL DIAGRAM 

Unities — Plot — Detailed Treatment 83 

CHAPTER VII 

ANALYSIS OP "AS YOU LIKE IT" 

According to the Analytical Diagram 89 

CHAPTER VIII 

ANALYSIS OF " OTHELLO " 

According to the Analytical Diagram ... 99 

CHAPTER IX 

ANALYSIS OF "A DOLL'S HOUSE " 

According to the Analytical Diagram 109 

CHAPTER X 

ANALYSIS OF "MARY MAGDALENE " 

According to the Analytical Diagram 115 

CHAPTER XI 

"mistress molly" 
A Play with Marginal Annotations 123 

CHAPTER XII 

A PROGRAM OF STUDY . . .... 147 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 13 
APPENDIX 

ANNOTATED PLAYS 

The Screen Scene from "The School for Scandal" . . . . 155 

The Trial Scene from "The Merchant of Venice" .... 185 

"The Cricket on the Hearth" 215 



PLAYWRIGHTS 
ACTORS 



PLAYWRIGHTS AND ACTORS 



PAGE 



E. H. Sothern and Julia Marlowe . . Frontispiece >^ 

William Shakespeare 231^ 

Moliere (Jean Baptiste Poquelin) 33 \y 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan 43 ^ 

David Garrick 53 ^ 

Oliver Goldsmith 67 ^ 

Edmund Kean 73^ 

Henrik Ibsen 79 ^ 

Edwin Booth 85 ^ 

Maurice Maeterlinck . 91 t 

Edwin Forrest 105 * 

Herman Sudermann 117^ 

Sarah Bernhardt .127^ 

Victorien Sardou 139 \S 

Sir Henry Irving 157 ^ 

Ellen Terry 159 1/ 

Sir Arthur Pinero 171 ^ 

Bronson Howard 181 «/ 

Augustus Thomas 191 ^ 

Joseph Jefferson 201 * 

George Bernard Shaw 211^ 

Richard Mansfield 2231/ 

David Belasco 235 " 

David Warfield 247 \s 

17 



18 PLAYWRIGHTS AND ACTORS 



Clyde Fitch . . 259 v 

James M. Barrie 271 v 

Walter Browne 281 V 



In securing many of the photographs of the playwrights and actors 
contained in this collection the services of Mr. Charles Ritzmann have 
been invaluable. Both the publishers and the author take this oppor- 
tunity to express to Mr. Ritzmann their appreciation of his painstaking 
and courteous attention. 

Cordial acknowledgment is also due the firm of Underwood & 
Underwood for their esteemed assistance. 



INTRODUCTION 



HOW TO APPRECIATE 
THE DRAMA 



CHAPTER I 

INTRODUCTION 

The Botanist. — It is doubtless true, if we are to be- 
lieve what psychologists tell us, that we see little in this 
world which we are not first taught to see. To the 
student trained in the science of Botany, "a primrose 
by a river's brim" is much more than a "yellow prim- 
rose," for he has been taught to see calyx, petal, stamen, 
and all the complex botanical elements of which the little 
flower is composed. More than this, his intimate knowl- 
edge of structure does not rob the botanist of artistic 
appreciation. Who of us has not envied him the pleas- 
ure and enthusiasm he is wont to display at the sight of 
an object, which, to our own untrained eyes, is merely 
"a' yellow primrose" and "nothing more"? 

Analysis of the Dramatic Flower. — So it is with 
that exquisite flower of literary expression which we are 
pleased to term the drama. Many a student of scientific 
tendencies shows a marked antipathy to the study of 



22 INTRODUCTION 

dramatic literature merely because he has never been 
taught the use of scalpel and microscope. His analytical 
powers, which are given full play in the realm of the 
sciences, so-called, being all too frequently tabooed in 
the study of the drama, he not unnaturally reaches the 
conclusion that he is not " literary," and is therefore 
content to let those whose minds he conceives to be 
illogical and unscientific carry off the honors of a study 
so impracticable. 

The Aim of This Treatise. — The botanical analogy 
will not be pursued further, but the theme will be treated 
from the standpoint of practical dramaturgy, the aim of 
the author being to point out (with no claim to originality ) 
a few of those structural elements of dramatic composition 
which seem to him most likely to stimulate in minds of an 
analytical trend an interest in the construction and devel- 
opment of plays. 




t&m x^aiiKSDii^ jzj±23. an 



DEVELOPMENT OF 
DRAMATIC FORMS 



CHAPTER II 
THE DEVELOPMENT OF DRAMATIC FORMS 

The Origin of the Classical Drama — The $acred Drama in England 
— Moralities and Interludes — The Chronicle Play and the Trag- 
edy of Blood — Comedy and Tragedy — The Evolution of the 
Theatre. 

The Origin of the Play Impulse. — Before considering 
the structural principles of dramatic art, it may be well to 
review briefly the history of the English drama. 

The early life of nations as well as individuals is 
marked by a fondness for games and plays, and it is. 
therefore, to the childhood of the human race that we 
must look for the origin of the play impulse. The min- 
strels of antiquity catered to a theatrical taste, and 
even the religious worship of ancient times assumed a 
dramatic form. 

The Evolution of the Greek Drama. — It was out of 
the famous choral hymn known as the dithyramb, sung 
in honor of Dionysus, or Bacchus, the god of wine, that 
the Greek drama was evolved. About the year 536 
B.C., Thespis, a semi-legendary Greek poet, is supposed 
to have attached to the old dithyrambic chorus a single 
actor who appeared successively in different roles, re- 
citing his monologues in the intervals of the choruses. 

27 



28 THE DEVELOPMENT OF DRAMATIC FORMS 

The Contribution of jEschylus. — A second actor was 
later introduced by iEschylus. This actor replied to 
the first, and dialogue thus superseded monologue. 

The Drama of Sophocles. — It remained for Sophocles 
to bring a third performer upon the scene. Each of 
the three actors assumed various characters ; wider scope 
was given to theatrical representations, and the chorus 
became subsidiary. 

The Source of the English Drama. — Although critics 
have sought to prove that the modern drama owes its 
origin to the Greek, all attempts "to link together the 
names of ^Eschylus and Shakespeare" have failed, and 
it is now generally conceded that the early English 
plays were altogether free from Greek influence. Dur- 
ing the ascendency of imperial Rome, dramatic pre- 
sentations were forbidden by the church, but in the 
middle ages tableaux were employed by the clergy for 
illustration, and finally liturgical plays began to be given 
in the church itself. Thus, the modern drama, though 
springing like the ancient Greek plays from religious 
worship, is, in point of fact, medieval rather than classical 
in its origin. 

The Mystery Play. — Strictly defined, the Mystery 
Plays were dramatizations of Biblical stories exclusively. 
The name "mystery" was given plays of this description 
in France. They were not so termed in England. 



THE INTERLUDE 29 

The Miracle Play. — The Miracle Plays dealt with 
legendary incidents in the lives of the saints of the 
church. French playwrights are supposed to have intro- 
duced plays of this character into England after the Nor- 
man Conquest, and these plays were doubtless the first 
which the English public witnessed. Later, when sacred 
dramas began to be written in English, the term Miracle 
Play, with which the public had become familiar through 
the French performances, was applied indiscriminately 
to all dramatic representations of a sacred character, 
including plays more properly classified as Mysteries. 

The Morality Play. — Allegory was the distinguishing 
feature of the Morality Play. The characters in this 
class of drama were abstract qualities personified; such, 
for example, as Avarice, Pride, and the like. Popular 
Moralities were Everyman and The Castle of Per- 
severence. This type of play has been revived exten- 
sively in recent years. Walter Browne's Everywoman 
is a notable example of the modern Morality Play. 

The Interlude. — Interludes were short, mirthful 
dramas resembling the Morality Play. They were thus 
named because frequently given between the acts of 
the older Mysteries and Moralities, or during the inter- 
vals of festivals and other celebrations. As an evolu- 
tionary type the Interlude is important, since it marked 
an advance in dramatic development by introducing in 
place of personified abstractions individual characters 
representing different classes of society. For example, 



30 THE DEVELOPMENT OF DRAMATIC FORMS 

in John Heywood's The Four P's, the characters are a 
Peddler, a Pardoner, a Palmer, and a Poticary . The Inter- 
lude brought the drama a step nearer to genuine comedy. 

The Chronicle Play. — The Chronicle Play was his- 
torical in its nature, and dealt with the principal events 
of a given reign. It was the forerunner of the great 
historical dramas of Shakespeare. Bale's King John 
is a well-known specimen. 

The Tragedy of Blood, — As the name signifies, the 
Tragedy of Blood was crude, sensational, violent, and 
brutal. Thomas Kyd's Spanish Tragedy, replete 
with murders and sudden deaths, belongs to this type 
of drama. The Tragedy of Blood is interesting as point- 
ing the way to loftier realms of art. Indeed, it is be- 
lieved that Hamlet was founded upon an old Tragedy 
of Blood. 

The First Comedy and Tragedy. — Like all evolution- 
ary processes, the transition from liturgical plays to 
comedy and tragedy was infinitely slow. However, 
about the year 1551, Ralph Roister Doister, the first 
comedy in the English language, was written by Nicholas 
Udall. This was followed, some ten years later, by the 
production of Sackville and Norton's Gorbuduc, which 
has the distinction of being the first English tragedy. 

Early Methods of Dramatic Presentation. — The 

early sacred dramas were probably first performed inside 



EARLY PERFORMANCES 31 

the churches by the priests. Later, they were presented 
on stages erected outside the church, the audience as- 
sembling in the churchyard. At length, they became 
dissociated from the church altogether, and were given 
by the city trades-guilds either in the halls of the guilds, 
or in the public squares on platforms attached to vehicles 
which could be moved from place to place in the town. 
There were usually two platforms, one placed above the 
other, the lower platform being curtained and used for a 
dressing-room. Each guild prepared a play, the story^ 
of the Bible being enacted from Creation to Doomsday. 

The Origin of the Pageant. — The plays of the guilds 
were given in succession, one vehicle following another 
to the place of performance. " Originally each vehicle 
was called a pageant," says William Echard Golden in 
his History of the English Drama. ''Afterwards the 
word pageant came to imply the show as well as the 
stage. Finally it was applied to the whole series of 
shows, whence the modern meaning." 

The Building of Theatres. — Companies of strolling 
players were gradually organized, and plays began to be 
given in castles and in the courtyards of inns. We know 
that one roving company came to Stratford-on-Avon 
while Shakespeare was a youth. At first it was neces- 
sary for actors to attach themselves to the household of 
some nobleman and wear his livery, in order to escape 
punishment under the laws against vagabondage, but as 
public interest in playgoing increased, the laws became 



32 THE DEVELOPMENT OF DRAMATIC FORMS 

less stringent, and theatrical companies were licensed 
to perform. At last, in the latter part of the sixteenth 
century, permanent playhouses were constructed, and 
with their erection the English drama became a flourish- 
ing institution. 

Summary. — Both the ancient Greek drama and the 
early English drama, though entirely independent of 
each other, originated in religious worship. At first con- 
fined to the field of Bible stories, the English drama 
slowly broadened its scope, (i) embracing the legends of 
the saints, (2) teaching moral truth by personified ab- 
stractions, (3) introducing individual types, and (4) 
finally portraying human character in action through the 
media of comedy and tragedy. 

Having thus considered the growth of dramatic forms, 
we now begin our examination of the internal structure 
of the completed play. 




MOJ^IKRK 



STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 



CHAPTER III 

STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 

The Unities — The Influence of the Playhouse on Dramatic Structure 
— The Plot: Its Source and Form — Methods of Plot Development. 

The Three Unities. — No canon of dramatic art has 
exerted greater influence over the literature of the stage 
than has the "so-called Aristotelian law of unity of time, 
of place and of action." Though attributed to Aristotle, 
the theory of the three unities, as Professor Brander 
Matthews has explained, was probably "worked out 
by the supersubtle Italian critics of the Renascence." 
Briefly defined, this law may be said to demand (i) 
that the scene of a play be laid in one place, (2) that the 
series of acted events be such as might occur approxi- 
mately within the time required to present the play, 
and (3) that nothing be admitted which is "irrelevant 
to the development of the single plot." 

Observance of the Unities by Ibsen and by Shake- 
speare. — The great Norwegian playwright Ibsen, though 
in many respects revolutionary, has not infrequently 
observed both unity of place and unity of time ; and even 
Shakespeare, whose mighty creative genius was naturally 
intolerant of conventional restraint, paid due homage to 

37 



38 STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 

these rules in The Tempest and in The Comedy of 
Errors. For the most part, however, Shakespeare seems 
to have felt it unnecessary to conform to these artistic 
laws, being able by his unerring intuition to attain, 
without their artificial aid, that full and perfect harmony 
of plot, structure, and tone, which the unities were 
designed to secure. 

Modern Observance of the Unities. — But some of 
our modern dramatists have apparently considered it 
incumbent upon them to yield strict obedience to these 
classic mandates. The scene of Charles Rann Kennedy's 
remarkable play The Servant in the House is laid in 
a single room, and the action is continuous, the char- 
acters at the opening of each succeeding act taking up 
the dialogue at the point of its termination in the pre- 
ceding act. 

The True Purpose of the Unities of Time and Place. — 

Concerning the unities of time and place, it is important 
to remember that they are at best mere artificial limita- 
tions, designed primarily for the purpose of attaining 
that complete unity of structure which every true work 
of art should possess. They are "purely fictitious prin- 
ciples," says Ward in his Introduction to English 
Dramatic Literature, "to either of which it may be 
convenient to adhere in order to make the unity of an 
action more distinctly perceptible, and either of which 
may with equal propriety be disregarded in order to give 
the action probability." 



THE UNITIES 39 

What Constitutes Compliance with Unity of Place. — 

These laws do not always demand absolute allegiance. 
Thus, in the successive acts of a drama, the playwright 
may give us different glimpses of the same uniform scene, 
and yet show adequate deference to the scenic unity of 
place. This is true of The Tempest, where Shake- 
speare, though confining the locality of his action to the 
geographical limits of a single island, yet presents to 
our view different parts of that island. 

What Constitutes Compliance with Unity of Time. — 

In general, it may be said that unity of time is suffici- 
ently observed if the acted events of a given play are 
represented as happening within the space of twenty- 
four hours. 

Narration of Prior Occurrences. — But it is interest- 
ing to note that the playwright who adheres to the above 
rule with any degree of strictness is compelled to sus- 
pend the forward movement of his play while the char- 
acters are made to relate certain incidents of prior occur- 
rence from which the onward motion of the drama has 
received its primary impulse. Again referring to The 
Tempest, Professor Richard G. Moulton in his Shake- 
speare as a Dramatic Artist calls attention to the fact 
that "when the keynote of the action has been struck 
by the brief dialogue between Prospero and Miranda, 
the action stands still for more than three hundred 
lines, and the interval is used to give us back-glances 
into the past." 



40 STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 

Unity of Action. — Unity of action demands (i) a 
single plot, and (2) the rigorous exclusion of all that does 
not contribute directly to the development of that plot. 
Sophocles and the other early Greek dramatists were 
strict followers of this rule. To them "unity of action" 
was synonymous with "single action/' and meant hardly 
more than the development of a single idea (as, for 
instance, a crime and its punishment) by a series of 
closely connected events. But Shakespeare, while he 
never failed to unite the component parts of his drama 
into a single whole, seldom regarded an inflexible law of 
plot restriction as a necessary means to this end. 

The Influence of the Elizabethan Theatre on Dra- 
matic Structure. — Any intelligent consideration of the 
structural side of the Shakespearian drama, however, 
should take account of the circumstances under which 
Shakespeare's plays were actually performed. The the- 
atres of Shakespeare's time were modeled after the 
old courtyards; they were poorly lighted, and were 
practically devoid of scenery. The playgoer was ex- 
pected to draw upon his imagination with the utmost 
freedom. The mind that could visualize the resplendent 
beauty of Venice without pictorial representation was not 
likely to complain of any lack of unity even in a play 
which was compounded of two stories, which transferred 
the scene back and forth from Venice to Belmont, and 
which extended over a sufficient period of time to account 
for Antonio's losses. 

The subdivision of acts into scenes (and it has been 



INFLUENCE OF THE PLAYHOUSE 41 

questioned if Shakespeare ever made such subdivision) 
could not have interfered in the slightest degree with the 
continuity of the dramatic movement, since there was no 
scenery to be set, and the characters of the coming scene 
simply moved forward as their predecessors receded 
from view. Much that scenery now accomplishes had 
then to be supplied by words, and we should be careful 
not to lose sight of that fact when we criticise the con- 
struction of a Shakespearian play. 

The Influence of the Modern Theatre on Dramatic 
Structure. — ■ The conditions surrounding the modern the- 
atre are vastly different from those surrounding the 
theatre of Shakespeare's time. The required atmos- 
phere is now produced largely by artistically conceived 
stage-settings and wonderfully manipulated lights — ■ an 
environment which calls for a drama, compact, clear-cut, 
and stripped of non-essentials, a drama, in short, that is 
built on scientific lines. In the rush of contemporary life, 
the voice that is heeded must speak a direct, forceful 
message; and the play that carries a swift and strong ap- 
peal is quite likely to conform to the unity of action. 

The Plot. — Plot has been defined as "the story of a 
play, poem, novel or romance comprising a complication 
of incidents which are at last unfolded by unexpected 



The Sources of the Plot. — Plots may be either orig- 
inal or borrowed. Shakespeare was largely indebted to 



42 STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 

other writers for the plot materials out of which he con- 
structed his plays. The story of the pound of flesh and 
the tale of the caskets had long been embodied in story 
form when Shakespeare wrote The Merchant of Ven- 
ice. A modern instance of borrowed plot material is 
to be found in The Heart of Maryland by David 
Belasco. In this play, the incident of the girl who saved 
her lover's life by hanging to the clapper of the bell so 
that the alarm could not be given was doubtless sug- 
gested by the popular poem Curfew Must not Ring To- 
night. 

The Form of the Plot— Plots may be simple or com- 
plex. Shakespeare's Julius Ccesar is a good illustra- 
tion of simple plot, comprising as it does a single story 
dealing with the contest between Caesar's friends and 
Caesar's enemies. The plot of King Lear, on the 
other hand, is extremely complex, being composed of a 
number of separate actions and their combinations. 

The Arch-Like Method of Plot Development. — The 

favorite Shakespearian method of plot development is 
arch-like in form, comprising a regular rise and fall of 
fortune or passion, with the turning point in the centre of 
the play. Professor Moulton, in his work already re- 
ferred to, points out the fact that Macbeth's undertak- 
ings are uniformly successful up to the time he despatches 
the murderers against Banquo and Fleance. This enter- 
prise is only half successful, since Fleance escapes. The 
escape of Fleance, which occurs in the exact centre of 




tr33n:E:F22:n>j^_2v 



THE PLOT 45 

the play, is the turning point of the plot (or " keystone 
to the arch"), and from that instant disaster attends 
Macbeth's every move till the culmination of the tragedy. 

The "Rise and Fall" Method Applied to Groups of 
Plays. — Shakespeare has also employed this method of 
depicting a rise and fall of fortune in the treatment of 
the motif which underlies certain groups of plays. Thus 
the ten historical dramas {King John, Richard II, the 
two parts of Henry IV, Henry V, the three parts of Henry 
VI, Richard III, and Henry VIII) have been regarded 
by certain critics as ten separate acts in a colossal drama 
dealing with the usurpation of the English throne by 
the House of Lancaster, the prologue of which is King 
John, the epilogue, Henry VIII — the rise of fortune 
culminating in Henry V. 

Likewise the four tragedies, Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, 
Antony and Cleopatra, and Timon of Athens, have been 
thought to represent the rise and fall of Roman power. 

The Catastrophic Method of Plot Development. — A 

very different method of plot development is that which 
Edmund Gosse attributes to Ibsen. Mr. Gosse does not 
find in the Ibsen plays any attempt to depict a rise and 
fall of fortune. The period of success is over and the 
impetus downward has been received before the play 
opens. It is not the cause but the result that engages 
Ibsen's attention, and in his "analysis of fatal conse- 
quences he has been thought more to resemble Sophocles 
than any of the moderns." Mr. Gosse believes that 



46 STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 

Ibsen has "added a new branch to dramatic literature 
by inventing the drama of catastrophe." 

" Ghosts" as an Example of the "Drama of Catas- 
trophe." — The gruesome little tragedy Ghosts is an 
excellent example of the particular form of dramatic 
expression to which Mr. Gosse calls attention. Heredity 
is the problem of the play. The young man who figures 
so conspicuously in the drama is the son of a dissipated 
and dissolute father, whose profligate life is reflected in 
the mental fibre of his son. Debarred by his inheritance 
from pursuing the artistic career which he craves, the 
young man turns for sympathy and love to the girl of 
his choice only to find that she is an illegitimate daughter 
of his own father, and that marriage with her is there- 
fore impossible. 

Fully aware that he must pay the price of his dead 
father's misdeeds, the son pledges his mother to take his 
life when the first symptom of his dreaded malady mani- 
fests itself; then, with bitterness in his heart, he awaits 
the end. It comes accompanied by all the theatrical 
splendor of a roseate dawn, and the boy, his brain fast 
weakening into idiocy, pleads piteously to be given the 
rising sun. 

The mother tears her hair and shrieks with horror as 
she realizes that her boy's dread prophecy is fulfilled. 
Then, remembering her pledge, she falls on her knees 
before him, and is groping frantically in his pockets 
for the fatal drug, when the curtain mercifully descends 
upon the scene. 



SUMMARY 47 

The reader of this play will be impressed by the 
fact that the "primary circumstance," the sin of the 
father, antedates the action of the drama. The seed 
has been sown when the play begins, and it is the harvest 
of "fatal consequences" — the "inevitable catastrophe" — 
with which Ibsen is chiefly concerned. 

Summary. — We have thus seen that for the purpose 
of molding his work into a harmonious whole, the play- 
wright frequently adopts definite artificial rules called 
the three unities; that the story of the drama may be 
borrowed or original, simple or complex, and that there 
are two notable types of plot development. 

With these structural principles in mind, we now pass 
to a consideration of some of the more minute details 
of dramatic workmanship. 



NATURALNESS 
HEIGHTENED EFFECTS 



CHAPTER IV 

NATURALNESS AND HEIGHTENED EFFECTS 

Prose as the Natural Vehicle of Expression — The Substitution of 
Action for Soliloquy — Methods of Introducing Light, Music, 
Tumult, and other Emotional Stimuli — Humanizing Methods — 
Incredulous Events Rendered Natural by Anticipatory Allusion — 
The Introduction of Objects. 

The Decline of Verse. — Naturalness is the keynote 
of all modern art, and nowhere is that note more insist- 
ently sounded than in the modern drama. People in 
real life do not speak in metrical numbers, and for that 
reason writers of acted plays of the present day have 
quite generally discarded blank verse as a vehicle of 
dramatic utterance. Ibsen's early plays were written 
in verse, but his conviction that he could not create 
the illusion of actual occurrences and true living char- 
acters by the use of rhythmic dialogue led him to adopt 
prose in the composition of his later and more realistic 
dramas. He felt that the form of literary expression 
should be determined by the degree of ideality with 
which the subject was treated; he " would not have the 
Venus of Milo painted," but "would rather see a negro's 
head carved in black marble than in white." 

The Soliloquy and "Aside." — For a precisely similar 
reason, the soliloquy, so popular in the Shakespearian 

51 



52 NATURALNESS AND HEIGHTENED EFFECTS 

drama, does not meet with general favor among modern 
playwrights. And the same may be said of the old- 
fashioned "aside." 

Substitution of Action for Soliloquy. — An interesting 
substitution of "action" for verbal soliloquy is found in 
Her Own Way by Clyde Fitch. When the curtain 
rises on the last act of this play, the heroine is discovered 
seated at the piano playing Schumann's Trailmerei. 
At the close of the preceding act she has received news of 
her lover's death, and after the first poignant pangs of 
grief have subsided, her sorrow finds tangible expression 
through the medium of music. It is a tremendously 
effective bit of realism, and speaks to the average play- 
goer much more eloquently than words. 

The Value of Music and Light. — Augustus Thomas 
gives us a very clever exposition of the dramatic value of 
color in his play The Harvest Moon. Indeed, from 
time immemorial, music and light have been recognized 
by play producers as important factors in stimulating 
the emotion. "Certainly Shakespeare knew what he 
was about," says Belasco, "when he placed his scene be- 
tween Romeo and Juliet on the balcony in the soft rays 
of the moon." 

Unfortunately, stage managers and dramatists have 
not always adopted the Shakespearian method of intro- 
ducing this emotional stimulus. Incidental music from 
the orchestra pit and red fire from the wings were popular 
in melodrama a generation ago, and it did not matter 




I5^wia:> isAi-aisECJiK 



EMOTIONAL STIMULI 55 

that these effects were utterly irrelevant to the play 
itself, so long as a dramatic situation was apparently 
heightened thereby. 

The Natural Introduction of Music and Light. — But 
the more artistic playwrights of our own time, following 
the lead of Shakespeare, strive to secure the benefit 
of these artificial devices in natural ways. They there- 
fore introduce music, when desired, as an essential 
feature of their plots, while moonlight, sunrise, sunset, 
etc., are natural channels through which the requisite 
light effects may be obtained. 

In Charles Klein's admirable play The Music Mas- 
ter, the most delicate musical illusion is produced by 
the practicing of the master's symphony in an adjoining 
room, the symphony itself playing a vital part in the 
development of the story. A like purpose is served 
by Pietro's composition The Song of the Soul in 
Edward Locke's The Climax, and by Arany's piano 
solos in Leo Ditrichstein's version of Herman Bahr's 
The Concert. The glow of dawn lends color to the closing 
scene of Ghosts, and it is a bit of dramatic economy worth 
noting that the first outward symptom of Oswald's 
shattered intellect is his request to be given the sun. 

Noise, Tumult, and Commotion. — In like manner, the 
crash of thunder, the rattle of artillery, the clatter of 
horses' hoofs, the roar of the mob, etc., are effective 
methods of extracting dramatic value from noise, tumult 
or commotion. 



56 NATURALNESS AND HEIGHTENED EFFECTS 

Analogy Between Natural Phenomena and Human 
Passion. — Moreover, the analogy between natural phe- 
nomena and the stress of human passion is often most 
effectively utilized. 

"Nor Heaven nor Earth have been at peace to-night," 
declares Caesar as the hour of his assassination approaches. 
Macbeth, fresh from the murder of Duncan, exclaims : 

"I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise ? 
Whereupon Lady Macbeth replies: 

"I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry." 
Says Lennox: 
"The night has been unruly; where we lay, 
Our chimneys were blown down. . . . 

Some say the earth 
Was feverous and did shake." 

In King Lear, the tempest of human emotion reaches 
its culmination in the madness of the king, and the 
psychic storm which shakes the old monarch finds its 
parallel in the raging of the elements. 

Use of Natural Phenomena to Evoke Sympathy and 
Intensify the Climax. — Dramatic literature of a more 
recent period is replete with similar situations. "The 
Girl of the Golden West" in a very whirlwind of passion 
turns the "road-agent" out of her cabin into the bliz- 
zard. Similarly, Dame Van Winkle, with a torrent of 
vituperation, consigns the long-suffering Rip to the 
fury of the storm. 

In each of these instances it will be observed that the 
introduction of natural phenomena serves both to excite 



HUMANIZING PROCESS 57 

the sympathy of the audience and to intensify the dra- 
matic climax. 

The Humanizing Process. — The dramatist who strives 
sincerely to hold the mirror up to nature, realizing that 
in life few persons are utterly bad, frequently endeavors 
to counteract the influence of any unattractive qualities 
which his characters may possess by bestowing upon 
them other nobler attributes, or by placing them in 
situations which have a tendency to awaken the pity 
and compassion of an audience. 

This humanizing process is strikingly exemplified in 
the character of Shylock, whose repellant personality is 
appreciably softened by his love for Jessica, his domestic 
trouble, and the ill treatment to which he, as a repre- 
sentative Jew, is continually subjected. 

So, also, the inveterate good nature of Rip Van Winkle 
contrasted with the vitriolic temper of his spouse, his 
affection for the village children, and his attachment 
to his dog, serve to transform the drunken vagabond into 
a wondrously lovable being. 

Even so inhuman a wretch as Gloucester in Shake- 
speare's Richard III possesses a few admirable qualities, 
such as physical bravery and intellectual power. In- 
deed, in portraying this character, Shakespeare has em- 
ployed the humanizing method so far as is consistent 
with the delineation of an utterly heartless monster of 
villainy and crime. Gloucester's very physical deform- 
ity, repulsive as it is, offers some slight excuse for his 
malevolence. Feeling that his misshapen body is some- 



58 NATURALNESS AND HEIGHTENED EFFECTS 

how responsible for his depraved mind, we are inclined 
to pity him when he thus bitterly describes himself: 
"Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
Deform'd, unfinished, sent before my time 
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
And that so lamely and unfashionable 
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them." 

Preparation for Improbable Events by Anticipatory 
Allusion. — A dramatic event in itself incredulous or 
fanciful is given the semblance of reality by natural 
allusions or explanations made in anticipation of its 
approach. It is somewhat improbable that the young 
men in Goldsmith's comedy She Stoops to Conquer 
should have mistaken Hardcastle's house for an inn, 
yet the mistake does not seem altogether unnatural 
when we have been prepared for it by such speeches 
as that of Mrs. Hardcastle at the very beginning of the 
play, when she exclaims: "Here we live in an old rum- 
bling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn." 

After Tony Lumpkin is described by Hardcastle as 
"a mere composition of tricks and mischief," we are not 
surprised at the prank which he plays upon young Mar- 
low and Hastings, while the prank itself affords reason- 
able occasion for the ludicrous situations which follow. 
We are prepared too for the greatest "mistake of the 
night," Marlow's belief that Kate is a bar-maid, by 
several anticipatory hints, the first of which is given 
by Kate herself upon her entrance, when she answers 
Hardcastle's criticism of her appearance with these words: 



ANTICIPATORY ALLUSION 59 

"You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the 
morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my 
own manner; and in the evening I put on my housewife's 
dress to please you." 

Shakespeare's plays abound in subtle touches of a 
like character, an interesting example of which occurs 
in Twelfth Night. Viola, separated from her brother 
by shipwreck, is left without protection in an unknown 
land. Having reason to believe that her brother is still 
alive, she naturally wishes to remain in the country till 
news of him can be obtained. Inclined at first to seek 
the assistance of the Countess Olivia, she is told that 
this "virtuous maid," because of a recent bereavement 
has "abjured company," and "will admit no kind of 
suit." The country is governed by Duke Orsino, in 
whom Viola's interest is aroused from the fact that she 
remembers to have heard her father "name him." 
But Orsino is a "bachelor," and she cannot with pro- 
priety present herself at his court. This state of affairs 
is adroitly set forth in the dialogue of the second scene, 
and so deftly is the way made ready for its approach, 
that Viola's determination to don boy's attire and enter 
the service of the Duke, so far from presenting a fan- 
tastic and improbable aspect, seems not only plausible 
but obvious. 

Similarly, in The Merchant of Venice Antonio's 
losses are foreshadowed almost from the start, and in the 
earlier scenes of Sardou's Diplomacy the great French 
dramatist, by repeated natural references to the pungent 
odor of the perfume which the Countess affects, skilfully 



60 NATURALNESS AND HEIGHTENED EFFECTS 

prepares his audience for the somewhat fanciful role 
which this perfume later plays in untangling the dramatic 
mystery. 

Natural Introduction of Implements Which Later 
Are to Serve a Dramatic Purpose. — Where the use of 
implements is necessary at some crisis in a play, dra- 
matic artists are careful to introduce such implements 
in a natural manner. The pistols which play so sanguin- 
ary a part in Hedda Gabler are described in the first 
act as having once belonged to Hedda's father, and as 
used by Hedda to "amuse" herself. The revolver with 
which Colonel Schwartz threatens his daughter, in the 
last act of Sudermann's Magda, is brought naturally 
into the scene by Colonel Schwartz when he declares 
his intention of righting Magda's betrayer. 

In The Mummy and the Humming Bird, Giuseppe 
tells his story with the aid of the syphon, the decanter, 
and the broken plate — objects which have a natural 
place at the supper which Giuseppe is asked to share. 
The ivory tusk with which Clay Whipple, in The 
Witching Hour, kills the young man who maddens 
him with the cat's-eye jewel is a part of the furnishings 
of Brookneld's library, and is first called to the attention 
of the audience by being brushed accidentally from the 
table by Mrs. Whipple, and afterwards picked up from 
the floor by Brookfreld, who fingers it nervously for a 
few moments before restoring it to its former position 
where it is ready for Whipple's hand at the critical 
instant. 



RECAPITULA TION 6 1 

Recapitulation. — The masters of dramatic art seek 
to eliminate from their work, so far as possible, all ap- 
pearance of artificiality, and they attain this result 
through careful attention to details. Characters do not 
appeal to an audience as human unless they talk natur- 
ally, and have the "elements so mix'd" in them that 
they are neither paragons of virtue nor ogres of vice; 
light, music, and tumult possess true dramatic value 
only when woven into the very warp and woof of the play 
itself; situations intrinsically unreal become more plaus- 
ible when anticipated by natural explanations or al- 
lusions, and instrumentalities which serve a purpose at 
crucial moments seem less miraculously at hand if they 
have been previously introduced in a natural fashion, — 
in short, the well-constructed drama is logical, not only 
in its portrayal of character, but in the concatenation of 
circumstances which comprise its plot. 



ECONOMY 

RETENTION OF INTEREST 



CHAPTER V 

ECONOMY AND RETENTION OF INTEREST 

Economy Applied to Characters, Objects, and Events — Contrast and 
Conflict as Dramatic Principles — Popular Appeal in the Choice 
and Treatment of the Theme — The Importance of Action — The 
Duty of Playgoers to Dramatist and Actors. 

Dramatic Economy. — In a limited sense, the play- 
wright who practices strict dramatic economy does not 
depict with absolute fidelity the actual conditions of hu- 
man existence, since there are countless daily occurrences 
in the life of every individual which seem to have little, if 
any, structural significance in the fife drama for which he 
is cast. Yet, in a broader sense, the dramatist who binds 
his situations together with the mighty chain of cause and 
effect, carefully selecting the essential and rejecting the 
non-essential, tacitly recognizes that Nature is the great 
economist, and that every human event, however trivial, 
has its place in the great economic scheme of things. 

In short, his aim is to reveal the principles of truth 
which underlie human endeavor rather than to picture 
with photographic nicety the mere external manifesta- 
tions of life. He presupposes some imaginative faculty 
on the part of his hearers, and exclaims with Shake- 
speare: "The best in its kind are but shadows; and 
the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them." 

65 



66 ECONOMY AND RETENTION OF INTEREST 

The following are a few examples of the way in which 
the great principle of economy has been practised in 
dramatic construction : 

Economy in Characters. — Economy in the use of 
characters is peculiarly essential where the exigencies 
of plot development require the weaving together of 
two or more distinct stories. Thus, in The Merchant 
of Venice, the story of the bond is connected with the 
tale of the caskets by the single character Bassanio, 
whose fortunes ultimately involve all the characters of 
the former story until both are completely fused in the 
trial scene. 

Economy in the Use of Objects. — The Merchant of 
Venice also furnishes an excellent example of economy 
in the introduction of objects. The story of the rings 
is utilized as a means of revealing to Bassanio the identity 
of Portia, thereby avoiding an abrupt and undramatic 
explanation. At the same time, the episode serves to 
conceal the improbability of Portia's disguise by divert- 
ing attention at a moment when the impossibility of 
her undertaking would otherwise be most apparent. 
Furthermore, the story of the rings tends to disclose 
the lighter side of Portia's character, and to test both the 
love and friendship of Bassanio. 

Economy in Marshaling Events. — Economy in the 
marshaling of dramatic events is well exemplified in 
Richard III, where one crime grows naturally out of 




OI.IViEK «0]r^l5fe?^2IT3I 



DRAMATIC ECONOMY 69 

another without apparent design on the part of 
Gloucester. 

Irony and Economy. — A humorous or ironic situation 
is frequently heightened by the employment of some 
economic device, as, for example, in Gilbert and Sulli- 
van's Pinafore, where the argument with which Sir 
Joseph seeks to justify his proposed marriage with 
Josephine — "love levels all ranks" — is the very argu- 
ment which finally induces Josephine to bestow her 
hand upon a common sailor. 

The Practical Side of Dramatic Economy. — The play- 
wright must tell his story within the three hours or less 
which the theatre allots him, and tell it usually to an 
audience of widely varying tastes, sympathies, and intel- 
ligence, whose attention he must capture at the start 
and retain to the end. In this he is not likely to suc- 
ceed unless he has the courage to discard all lines, char- 
acters, or situations (however meritorious in themselves) 
which tend to impede the direct advancement of his 
plot. Says Marguerite Merington: " Every word, essen- 
tial gesture, expressive silence, devised by the play- 
wright, must find its motive in the psychic essence 
of the part, must tend to some definite dramatic end in 
the structure of the play." 

Even characters whose presence is important in creat- 
ing a desired atmosphere ought to serve some additional 
purpose. In Julius Ccesar, the Soothsayer not only 
constitutes a significant detail in the picture of Roman 



70 ECONOMY AND RETENTION OF INTEREST 

life, but affords a medium through which may be given 
an anticipatory hint of Caesar's impending doom. 

Contrast. — Contrast is a powerful weapon in the 
hand of the play-builder. The success of that class of 
plays of which The Prisoner of Zenda is a notable 
type is due in no small degree to the fact that the practical, 
prosaic characters of our own time are placed in a dra- 
matic environment replete with the customs and ideals 
of a romantic age. 

The comparison of country life with city life forms 
the basis of many humorous situations in popular rural 
plays, such as The Old Homestead and The Re- 
juvenation of Aunt Mary. The calm and nonchalant 
demeanor of Travers, the imperturbable clubman, in 
opposition to the hysterical conduct of the South Ameri- 
can revolutionists is responsible for much of the whole- 
some fun which pervades Richard Harding Davis's 
farcical play The Dictator. 

Contrast in the Shakespearian Drama. — Shakespeare's 
plays are filled with contrasted individuals, groups, and 
situations. A few examples will suffice. In The Mer- 
chant of Venice, Shylock the Jew is contrasted with 
Antonio the Gentile; the sprightliness of Launcelot 
with the infirmity of Gobbo. In Twelfth Night, the 
feminine timidity with which Viola faces Sir Andrew's 
sword is offset by the masculine force with which Se- 
bastian repulses Sir Andrew. In Julius Ccesar, the 
calm, dispassionate, clear-cut oration of Brutus to the 



CONTRAST AND CONFLICT 71 

Roman people is followed by the sagacious, insinuating 
address of Antony. 

Contrast by the Introduction of Verse, Song, or 
Melody. — The playwright frequently secures a pleasing 
contrast by the introduction of some well-known poem, 
song, or melody, which, if relevant to the plot, serves 
the double purpose of graceful explanation and popular 
appeal. This is especially true of the Bret Harte verses 
which are introduced with such telling effect by Augustus 
Thomas in The Witching Hour. 

Dramatic Conflict.— Conflict is still another important 
attribute of a successful play. We find it exemplified 
crudely in the physical contest of the hero and villain 
of the sensational melodrama; picturesquely, in the 
stage duel of the so-called romantic drama; with psychic 
appeal, in plays like The Witching Hour; and subtly, 
in the clash of wits which characterizes such comedies 
as Lady Frederick. 

The play is very like a game after all, and much of the 
enjoyment we derive from witnessing a dramatic per- 
formance lies in the fact that we sympathize with the 
hero and heroine who are striving to attain happiness. 
We make their contest our own, applauding their tri- 
umphs when they succeed, or weeping furtively when the 
"game" goes against them. 

The "Journalistic Drama." — This suggests the indis- 
putable fact that the successful dramatist always under- 



72 ECONOMY AND RETENTION OF INTEREST 

stands the psychology of his audience. The vogue of 
that class of plays which Montrose J. Moses terms "sheer 
journalism" is by no means accidental. The magazines 
and daily papers exploit the themes which catch the 
fancy of the people, and the play-builder is astute who 
caters to a taste already developed and fostered by 
journalistic literature. As proof of this assertion, wit- 
ness the popularity of the drama of "high finance," of 
which Charles Klein's The Lion and the Mouse and 
The Gamblers are conspicuous examples. 

Ibsen and the Newspapers. — It has been said of 
Ibsen that he "drew from newspapers most of the raw 
material for his incomparable dramas," that "newspapers 
gave him much of his knowledge of human nature and 
of the world," that "he would spend hours in reading 
them from beginning to end," and that "he accumulated 
thousands of clippings on all imaginable phases of life.'' 

The Importance of the Opening Scene. — An eminent 
educator was wont to declare that the public speaker 
who wishes the immediate attention of his hearers can 
best secure it by stating his fundamental proposition 
at the outset in startling terms. This rule is equally 
applicable to the playwright, who should never forget 
that the setting and opening of his first act are all im- 
portant. 

Clyde Fitch recognized this necessity, and was especi- 
ally adept in selecting for his first scene both a setting 
and a situation of unusual interest. The school-room 




s^^zxrro} kka^- 



TREATMENT OF THE THEME 75 

scene in Nathan Hale, the nursery scene in Her Own 
Way, and the lodging-room scene in Girls are apt il- 
lustrations. 

The Audience Must Share the Secret.— It is also to be 
borne in mind in the treatment of a given theme that 
playgoers resent all attempts to mystify them. The 
novelist may reserve a surprise to the last, but the play- 
wright must permit his audience a glimpse of the real 
situation. This fact is set forth convincingly by Pro- 
fessor Matthews in his interesting and valuable work A 
Study of the Drama. It is also referred to by Esen- 
wein in his analysis of The Ransom of Red Chief 
by O. Henry {Studying the Short-Story)* when he calls 
attention to "the stage trick of a character in ignorance 
while the audience enjoys his delusion." 

A Picture Play. — The distinction between the dra- 
matic and novelistic treatment is happily illustrated by a 
little moving-picture drama which was popular a few 
years ago. 

A child is represented as imprisoned beneath a large 
bandbox, which has accidentally fallen from a table near 
which the child has been playing. The parents search 
in vain for the child. Gypsies have been in the vicinity, 
and they are suspected of having had a hand in the disap- 
pearance. A spirited race to overtake the gypsies en- 
sues. There are all sorts of complications. But at 
intervals throughout the portrayal of the parents' fren- 
zied hunt, the scene is shifted back to the home, where 

*Hinds Noble & Eldredge, New York. $1.25. 



76 ECONOMY AND RETENTION OF INTEREST 

the spectators are shown the bandbox rocked to and 
fro by the little prisoner's endeavors to extricate him- 
self. 

Finally, the child becomes exhausted, and desists 
momentarily from his efforts. The parents return in 
despair. The father sits with bowed head and downcast 
eyes, when suddenly he notices that the overturned band- 
box is actually moving. At first, he is terrified, but soon 
regains his courage, and lifting the box from the floor, 
discloses to view the long lost child. 

The story writer might have withheld from his readers 
all knowledge of the child's whereabouts, and made them 
parties in the father's discovery. Not so with the drama- ~> 
tist: he must allow his audience to share the secret, to 
participate in the game. The appeal of this little kin- 
etoscopic drama lay in creating a suspense on the part 
of the spectators, who were all eagerly waiting to see 
when and how the parents would find out what they 
(the spectators) already knew. There is a better reason 
than is sometimes imagined for calling a dramatic per- 
formance a "play." 

The Importance of Action. — The efficient playwright 
never permits himself to disregard the axiom that in the 
drama action is indispensable. By action is meant energy 
exhibited in outward motion as opposed to the mere 
recitation of dialogue. While it is true that dramatists 
like Ibsen have been able to imbue commonplace con- 
versation with life, yet an examination of their works 
will reveal the fact that words are usually incident to 



THE DRAMATIC TEST 77 

deeds, and though the action may be temporarily sub- 
merged, it springs to the surface in climactic moments 
with a force and intensity which is all the more signifi- 
cant because of the contrast. 

To test a given play, let the student ask this question : 
Could the story be adequately told by a series of moving 
pictures? If the answer is no, then he may rest assured 
that the work is not a drama in any real or vital sense. 

A Note of Caution. — The foregoing pages have dealt 
with the drama on its structural side exclusively. At 
this point a word of caution seems advisable. Canons 
of art and rules of construction are vastly important as 
means to an end: they are never an end in themselves. 
To become a vital thing the skeleton of dramatic form 
should be invested with the flesh and blood of substance. 
The play that lives must be endowed with heart and 
mind and soul. 

And just as in human life there is a beauty of spirit 
which transcends mere physical attractiveness, so in the 
realm of art a message is sometimes spoken which in 
the form of its utterance violates prescribed laws, and at 
the same time possesses a splendor all its own, a grandeur 
that defies analysis. If a play grips us, if it teaches a 
great truth impressively, if it stirs our emotions, if it 
incites us to laughter, or moves us to tears, it has perhaps 
fulfilled its dramatic mission even though its technique 
may fall far short of accepted standards. 

The theatre is literally a "play house," and it is a duty 
we owe not only to ourselves but to dramatist and actors 



78 ECONOMY AND RETENTION OF INTEREST 

to enter it not with a critical, fault-finding spirit, but 
with something of the imagination and receptivity of 
childhood. Knowledge of dramatic mechanism ought 
not to mar our enjoyment, nor dim the theatrical illus- 
ion, provided we are careful always to remember that 
the drama could never have become the vital, growing 
force it is to-day were the rules of its construction rigid 
and inelastic. The finest imagination is that which is 
controlled by intelligence, and the playgoer who is 
tempted to overestimate the importance of conformity 
to artistic law will find it salutary to recall the fact that 
Shakespeare scorned to be a slave to classical tradition, 
and that Wagner in the composition of his great music- 
dramas discarded the shackles of conventionality. 

Summary. — The attention of the audience can rarely 
be retained without a strict observance of dramatic 
economy. Contrast and conflict are potent methods of 
securing interest; the choice of the theme is important, 
and in its treatment the sagacious playwright recognizes 
the fact that playgoers delight to participate in the 
game and to share the dramatic secret. 

Succeeding Chapters. — A diagram embodying the 
principles enumerated in the preceding pages comprises 
the chapter which follows, and in order to illustrate 
the method of analysis under this diagram, four plays 
have been selected for examination — Shakespeare's As 
You Like It and Othello, Ibsen's A DolVs House, and 
Maeterlinck's Mary Magdalene. 




nmre^iFsniFs: ibs»* 



AN 

ANALYTICAL DIAGRAM 



CHAPTER VI 
AN ANALYTICAL DIAGRAM 

I. UNITIES, 
i. Time. 

(a) Explanation of prior occurrences. 

2. Place. 

3. Action. 

II. PLOT. 

1. Source. 

(a) Original. 

(b) Borrowed. 

2. Form. 

(a) Simple. 

(b) Complex. 

3. Development. 

(a) Arch-like. 

(b) Catastrophic. 

III. DETAILED TREATMENT. 

A. Methods of securing naturalness. 
1. Vehicle of expression. 

(a) Prose. 

(b) Verse. 

(c) Dialect. 
2^Soliloquies land "asides." 

(a) ABsence of 

(b) Presence of 

3. Natural introduction of emotional stimuli. 

(a) Light. 

(b) Music. 

83 



84 AN ANALYTICAL DIAGRAM 

(c) Tumult. 

(d) Noise. 

(e) Natural phenomena. 

4. Humanizing process. 

(a) Personal qualities of characters. 

(b) Circumstances. 

5. Anticipation. 

(a) Of incredulous events. 

(b) Of use of implements or objects . . 
B. Methods of securing interest of audience. 

1. Economy. 

(a) In the introduction of characters. 

(b) In the use of objects. 

(c) In the marshalling of events. 

2. Contrast. 

(a) In the grouping of characters and events. 

(b) In the vehicle of expression. 

3. Conflict. 

(a) Mental. 

(b) Physical. 

4. Appeal to popular taste. 

(a) In the choice of the theme. 

(b) In the treatment of the theme. 




ZKiOTVZirs- BOOTH 



ANALYSIS OF 

"AS YOU LIKE IT" 



CHAPTER VII 
ANALYSIS* OF "AS YOU LIKE IT" 

In this chapter and in the three which succeed it, the 
topics are numbered and lettered with reference to the 
diagram on pages 41-42. 

I. — UNITIES 

i. The play does not conform to the unity of time. 

(a) The first scene is, in the main, devoted to an 
explanation of events which have occurred prior to the 
action of the play. 

2. Sixteen of the twenty- two scenes are laid in the 
forest of Arden, and the remaining scenes are located 
cither at Oliver's house or Duke Frederick's palace. 

3. Unity of action is not strictly observed. Never- 
theless there is perfect unity of tone and feeling. 

11. — PLOT 

1. (b) It has been suggested that the plot oi As 
You Like It was derived from two sources — Rosa- 
lynd: Euphues' Golden Legacy, sl novel by Thomas 
Lodge, and The Cook's Tale of Gamely n, supposed at 
one time to have been written by Chaucer, but not now 
included in his works. Since, however, The Cook's 
* Based on "An Analytical Diagram" 

89 



go ANALYSIS OF "AS YOU LIKE IV 

Tale of Gamelyn was not printed in Shakespeare's 
lifetime, his familiarity with it has been doubted. 

2. (b) The plot is complex, comprising four love epi- 
sodes besides the contest between the Dukes and that 
between Oliver and Orlando. 

3. (a) The arch-like method of plot development 
is employed, the pivotal point being in the centre of the 
play (Act III, Scene II) when Orlando meets Rosalind 
in disguise. 

III. — DETAILED TREATMENT 

A. — Methods of Securing Naturalness. 

1. (a) Prose and (b) blank verse are commingled, 
the larger portion of the play being in prose. 

2 . (b) The soliloquies are few and short. In Act III, 
Scene III, there are a few "asides." 

3. (b) Vocal music is introduced naturally as the spon- 
taneous expression of the characters. 

(c) The shouting incidental to the wrestling match 
is a natural means of introducing emotional stimulus. 

4 (a) We find a humanizing touch in Duke Frederick's 
love for Celia. All the characters, especially Oliver, 
become more sympathetic when brought in contact 
with the magic of the forest. 

(b) That Rosalind should not attempt sooner to 
reveal her identity to her father is unnlial. In order to 
make her remissness pardonable, the love affair which 
detains her should be of unusual piquancy and charm; 
and in the game she plays with Orlando we have just 
the sort of situation to capture our sympathies and make 
us exceedingly lenient toward her faults. 




MAKTKHO.JXa-i: 



ANALYSIS OF "AS YOU LIKE IT" 93 

5. (a) The masquerade of Rosalind is frankly antici- 
pated at the close of Act I. 

B. — Methods of Securing Interest of Audience. 

1. (a) The banished Duke is the magnet which draws 
all characters, directly or indirectly, to the forest. 
Rosalind goes there to seek him, and Celia and Touch- 
stone accompany her. Orlando, seeking food for Adam, 
interrupts the feast of the Duke and his followers, and 
after revealing his identity, remains as a welcome guest. 
Rosalind's interest in "the wrestler" arouses Frederick's 
suspicion that Rosalind and Celia have fled with Orlando. 
He therefore commands Oliver to seek his brother and 
' ' bring him dead or living. ' ' Oliver is rescued from death 
by Orlando in the forest, and brought by him to the 
banished Duke. He is then sent with a message to 
Ganymede from the wounded Orlando, and meeting 
Celia, falls in love with her. Frederick makes ready an 
expedition against the banished Duke, but after reach- 
ing the "skirts" of the wood, is "converted both from his 
enterprise and from the world," the tidings being brought 
to the Duke by Jaques de Boys. 

(b) The papers containing verses which Orlando 
hangs upon the trees are an economical as well as an 
artistic means of acquainting Ganymede with the fact 
that Orlando loves Rosalind. The chain which Rosa- 
lind presents to Orlando in Act I affords an opportunity 
for Celia to tell Rosalind of Orlando's presence in the 
forest in a dramatic manner. 

(c) Out of the wrestling match much of the subse- 



94 ANALYSIS OF "AS YOU LIKE IT" 

quent action is naturally evolved. Orlando's victory 
enrages Oliver and makes necessary Orlando's flight; it 
awakens Rosalind's interest in "the wrestler," and her 
interest leads Frederick to suspect that Orlando has had 
a hand in the disappearance of Celia and Rosalind. 
Similarly, the unmasking of Rosalind restores to the 
banished Duke his daughter, and gives Phebe a husband 
and Orlando a wife. 

2. (a) The play abounds in happy contrasts. The 
characters are exceedingly varied : Duke, jester, wrestler, 
vicar, shepherds, courtiers, country people, pages, forest- 
ers, etc. The complexity of court life is placed in opposi- 
tion to the simple life of the forest. Three types of humor 
are contrasted, designated by Professor Moulton as " the 
healthy humor of Rosalind, the professional humor of 
Touchstone, and the morbid humor of Jaques." Rosa- 
lind and Orlando, Touchstone and Audry, Silvius and 
Phebe, Oliver and Celia, are contrasted both as types of 
lovers and in the methods of their wooing. 

(b) Prose, verse, and song are blended and con- 
trasted in the most delightful fashion. 

3. (a) There is a conflict between the Dukes, and 
between Orlando and Oliver. Rosalind during her mas- 
querade is playing a game; and Jaques and Touch- 
stone welcome every opportunity to match wits with 
any and all comers. 

(b) In the first scene, Orlando lays hands upon 
Oliver. In the wrestling match there is actual physical 
conflict, which has structural significance from the fact 
that Charles is the representative of Oliver in the struggle. 



ANALYSIS OF " AS YOU LIKE IT" 95 

In Act II, Scene VII, Orlando demands food at the 
point of the sword. 

4. (a) All the world loves a fairy tale, and As You 
Like It, with its magical forest peopled with impossible 
lions and conventional shepherds, with its atmosphere of 
playfulness and its extravagantly happy ending, is just 
the sort of play to appeal to popular taste in all ages. 

(b) The audience shares the secret of Rosalind's 
disguise, and enters heartily into the game with her. 



ANALYSIS OF 
"'OTHELLO" 



CHAPTER VIII 

ANALYSIS* OF "OTHELLO" 

I. — UNITIES 

i. Unity of time is disregarded. 

(a) The first act partaking somewhat of the nature of 
a prologue, there are few prior events which it is neces- 
sary to relate. Cassio's preferment, Roderigo's interest 
in Desdemona, and the elopement of Desdemona and 
Othello are explained briefly in the first scene. The 
wooing of Desdemona is described by Othello himself 
in his speech to the Duke and Senators in the third scene. 

2. The first act is laid in Venice; all the others, at a 
seaport in Cyprus. 

3. The essential elements of unity of action are 
observed. 

11. — PLOT 

1. (b) The plot is adapted from a story by Giraldi 
Cinthio, an Italian novelist. It is a "meagre tale," and 
none of the characters in the story, except Desdemona, 
are given names. 

2. (a) Though combining several intrigues, the plot 
is relatively simple. 

3. (a) The plot is manipulated on the regular "rise 
and fall" principle. The descent begins in the third 

*Based on "An Analytical Diagram," page 41. 

99 



ioo ANALYSIS OF "OTHELLO" 

scene of the central act when Othello commences to 
credit Iago's insinuations regarding the infidelity of 
Desdemona. 

III. — DETAILED TREATMENT 

A. — Methods of Securing Naturalness. 
i. (a) Prose is employed in several instances, but 
(b) blank verse and rhyme predominate. 

2. (b) Iago indulges in several long soliloquies which 
acquaint the audience with the malignity of his purposes. 
There are also various other soliloquies, as well as 
"asides". 

3 . (a) There are several night scenes with faint light 
or flickering torches to give naturally a background of 
weird or sombre color to the tragedy. 

(b) The song of Iago in the third scene of the second 
act, the playing of the musicians at the opening of Act 
III, and the song of Desdemona in the last scene of Act 
IV are examples of the natural introduction of music. 

Various trumpet calls announcing the arrival of char- 
acters help to create a military atmosphere. 

(c) Tumult and (d) noise are naturally introduced 
by the shouting and the guns preceding Othello's en- 
trance in Act II. 

4. (a) Iago possesses soldierly qualities, and is intel- 
lectually strong. 

The simplicity of Othello's nature makes us more will- 
ing to forgive his gullibility. 

The weakness of Cassio's character as revealed in the 
scene of his intoxication helps to explain his willingness 
to have Desdemona intercede for him. 



ANALYSIS OF "OTEELLO" 101 

(b) Iago's conduct seems a trifle more human when 
we learn that Othello has refused to make him his lieu- 
tenant, and that he suspects the Moor has had a liaison 
with his wife. 

Desdemona's interest in Othello appears much less 
abnormal after the Moor has made his defence to the 
Duke and Senators. The further fact that none of the 
other characters in the play are at all worthy of her con- 
tributes to the same end. 

5. (a) The preparation for Iago's intrigue against 
Othello begins as early as the seventh line of the play, 
when Roderigo says to Iago : 

"Thou tolds't me thou didst hold him in thy hate." 

Othello's belief in Desdemona's faithlessness is antici- 
pated when Brabantio speaks his parting words near 
the close of Act I: 

"Look to her Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; 
She has deceiv'd her father, and may thee." 

The jealousy of Othello will appear more probable 
if the man of action is placed where there is nothing to 
prevent his brooding over the first crafty suggestion of 
Iago. He is therefore sent on the expedition to Cyprus, 
and the sudden wreck of the Turkish fleet leaves him 
there without martial occupation. Domestic tragedy 
is thus anticipated. 

Desdemona's death is foreshadowed by her song in 
the last scene of Act IV. 



102 ANALYSIS OF "OTHELLO" 

The soliloquies of Iago prepare the audience for much 
of the succeeding action. 

(b) The handkerchief is introduced in a natural 
manner by Desdemona when she wishes to bind Othello's 
forehead in the third scene of Act III. 

B. — Methods of Securing Interest of Audience. 

i. (a) Cassio is the instrument by which Iago effects 
his designs. The quarrel of Cassio in the third scene 
of the second act leads to the loss of his office, and Des- 
demona's entreaties in his behalf help to confirm Othello's 
suspicions of her infidelity. Cassio 's relations with 
Bianca still further confirm these suspicions by affording 
a natural means of exhibiting the handkerchief to Othello, 
and by furnishing a topic of conversation (Act IV, Scene 
I) which Othello misinterprets as referring to Desdemona. 

(b) The handkerchief not only strengthens Othello 
in his unfounded belief in Desdemona's perfidy, but con- 
nects Bianca with the other characters, and is responsi- 
ble for the ironical situation in the fourth scene of Act 
III, when Desdemona insists that the Moor's interest in 
the loss of the handkerchief is but a trick to keep her 
from pleading Cassio's cause. 

(c) The advancement of Cassio to the lieutenancy 
arouses Iago's jealousy, and it is Iago's machinations 
that direct the trend of the plot. Being thus directed, 
the plot seems less like the artificial creation of the play- 
wright. 

Othello's defence in the last scene of the first act 
has economic value, since it serves to relate a prior 



ANALYSIS OF "OTHELLO" 103 

occurrence, makes Desdemona's love for the Moor seem 
more probable, and bridges over the time that must 
elapse in summoning Desdemona. 

2. (a) The simplicity of Othello is contrasted with the 
craftiness of Iago; the virtue of Desdemona and Emilia, 
with the wantonness of Bianca; the gentleness of 
Desdemona, with the martial qualities of the Moor. 
In the second scene of Act I, the rage of Brabantio is 
met with the calmness of Othello. The playfulness of 
the clown at the opening of the fourth scene in Act III 
is succeeded by the grim seriousness of the Moor. The 
blunt accusation of Othello in the second scene of Act 
IV is followed by the refined delicacy of Desdemona's 
question to Iago, when she is unwilling to speak the name 
the Moor has applied to her. 

(b) Rhyme, blank verse, and song are mingled. 

3. (a) There is the struggle of Iago to compass his 
evil designs; the struggle of Cassio to regain his office, 
and the ironical struggle of Desdemona to regain it for 
him; the struggle of Bianca to retain Cassio's affection; 
the inward conflict of Othello with his suspicions of 
Desdemona, and his outward struggle to prove her guilt; 
the short conflict of Iago with Emilia near the close of 
the play; and the pursuit of Desdemona by Roderigo. 

(b) There is physical conflict between the followers 
of Othello and those of Brabantio, Act I, Scene II; the 
quarrels of Cassio, Act II, Scene III, and Act V, Scene I; 
the physical violence of Desdemona's death, and the 
suicide of Othello. 

4. (a) The marriage of the Moor and Desdemona is 



104 ANALYSIS OF "OTHELLO" 

in itself sufficiently startling to attract the attention 
of the audience at once. 

(b) No effort is spared to give the audience full 
knowledge of lago's villainy. The interest of the 
audience is sustained by watching the ensnarement of 
Othello, and wondering when and how he will dis- 
cover the true character of Iago. 

The first act opens strikingly with the abrupt an- 
nouncement to Brabantio of his daughter's elopement. 




Sfil^WJIV !l' v O:K:i^Ifc£te3T 



ANALYSIS OF 

"A DOLL'S HOUSE' 



CHAPTER IX 
ANALYSIS* OF "A DOLL'S HOUSE" 
I. — UNITIES 

i. The action takes place on three consecutive days. 

(a) The dialogue of Mrs. Linden and Nora, and Krog- 
stad and Nora, in Act I, familiarizes the audience with 
what has transpired before the action of the play. 

2. Unity of place is strictly observed. 

3 . The play conforms to the unity of action sufficiently, 
although the character of Dr. Rank contributes little 
to the advancement of the plot. 

ii. — PLOT 

i. (a) The plot is original and (2a) simple. 

3. (b) The catastrophic method of plot development 
is, employed. "Nothing can involve Nora in deeper 
embarrassment than what has already happened" when 
the curtain rises. 

III. — DETAILED TREATMENT 

A. — Methods of Securing Naturalness. 

1. (a) Prose is the vehicle of expression. 

2. (b) There are several speeches which are not ad- 
dressed to any of the characters. 

*Based on "An Analytical Diagram," page 41. 

109 



no ANALYSIS OF "A DOLL'S HOUSE" 

3. (b) The music of the piano in Act II is naturally 
introduced. The dance music in Act III is heard from 
outside, and is the natural accompaniment to the dance 
which is going on in the room above. 

(c) The shouting and merriment of the children in 
the game with Nora serve to heighten the dramatic 
effect and throw light on Nora's character. 

(d) The reverberation of the door closing at the 
end of the play is an effective method of expressing 
the force and irrevocability of Nora's decision. 

4. (a) In all the principal characters virtues and 
faults are commingled. 

(b) Nora's desertion of her husband and children to 
be received sympathetically must appear to be justified 
by some circumstance other than her desire to "educate'' 
herself. This is found in the conduct of Torvald toward 
Nora's forgery. 

5. (a) Nora's indebtedness is anticipated early in Act 
I by the reference to her need of money in her dialogue 
with Torvald. Nora's abandonment of her children is 
anticipated at the beginning of Act II in the dialogue 
between Nora and Anna. 

(b) The domino which Nora throws round her in 
Act III is brought naturally into the scene by Torvald 
when he returns with Nora from the dance. 

B. — Methods of Securing Interest of Audience. 

1. (a) Dramatic economy is exemplified in the char- 
acters of Mrs. Linden and Krogstad. Mrs. Linden 
wishes to secure Krogstad's position, and Krogstad's 



ANALYSIS OF U A DOLUS HOUSE" m 

desire to retain his position precipitates the trouble 
between Nora and Torvald. The reconciliation of Mrs. 
Linden and Krogstad brings about the return of the 
promissory note, and that in turn reveals Helmer's char- 
acter in such a light that Nora feels impelled to leave him. 

(b) The Christmas-tree, besides serving its purpose 
in the action of the play, is also a symbol of Nora's life. 
The macaroons throw light upon both the character of 
Nora and that of Torvald. 

(c) Helmer's new position gives impetus to all that 
follows. While it seems at first to solve Nora's diffi- 
culties, yet in reality it leads directly to the catastrophe 
by forcing Krogs tad's hand, and bringing Mrs. Linden 
into the action. 

2. (a) Nora's assumed gayety stands out in marked 
contrast to her real feelings. The character types are 
well contrasted. The tarantella is a bit of vivid color 
in somewhat dull surroundings — the passion of the 
South contrasted with the frigidity of the North. 

3. (a) There is the outward struggle of Nora with 
Krogstad and Helmer, and the inner struggle of Nora 
with her own nature. There is the struggle of Krogstad 
to retain his position, and the struggle of Dr. Rank with 
his fatal disease. 

4. (a) The problem of woman's development is al- 
ways a popular theme. 

(b) The play opens in an appealing manner with 
the Christmas-tree and basket of presents, the conceal- 
ment of the macaroons, and the romping of Nora and 
the children. 



ANALYSIS OF 
"MARY MAGDALENE' 



CHAPTER X 

ANALYSIS* OF " MARY MAGDALENE " 

I. — UNITIES 

i. Unity of time is not observed. 

(a) The early dialogue of Act I gives us glimpses 
of the past. 

2. Unity of place is not observed. 

3. The play conforms to the unity of action. 

11. — PLOT 

1. (b) The play is founded on the story of the Mag- 
dalene, and Maeterlinck acknowledges his indebtedness 
to Heyse's Maria Von Magdala for the idea of two 
situations, one at the close of the first act where Christ 
"stops the crowd raging against Mary Magdalene with 
these words, spoken behind the scenes: 'He that is with- 
out sin among you, let him cast the first stone';" the 
other in the third act where Mary has it in her power to 
save or destroy the Master "according as she consents 
or refuses to give herself to a Roman." 

2. (a) The plot is simple. 

3. (a) The pivotal point of the plot is to be found near 
the end of Act II, when Lazarus addresses Mary with 
the words: "Come. The Master calls you." 

*Based on "An Analytical Diagram," page 41. 

"5 



n6 ANALYSIS OF "MARY MAGDALENE" 

III. — DETAILED TREATMENT 

A . — Methods of Securing Naturalness. 
i. (a) Prose is the vehicle of expression. 

2. (a) There are no soliloquies nor "asides." 

3. (a) The red light at the end of the play is intro- 
duced naturally by the glare of the torches from without. 
In preparation for this, the lamps in the room are ex- 
tinguished naturally at the suggestion of the Cripple, 
who fears detection by the mob. 

(b) The "sound of the double flute" outside an- 
nounces naturally the entrance of Mary Magdalene. 

(c) Tumult, (d) noise, etc., are introduced naturally 
by the shouting of the mob, the sound of arms, horses, etc. 

4. (a) The Roman characters are endowed with the 
usual Stoic virtues. 

(b) The conduct of Verus, contemptible in itself, 
seems less reprehensible in view of the fact that he is a 
Roman, and as yet uninfluenced by the teachings of 
Christ. 

5. (a) The attack of the mob upon Mary Magdalene 
at the end of Act I is anticipated by Mary herself, who 
relates how she had been previously insulted and threat- 
ened with stones; and also by Silanus when he says: 
"You know the Jewish fanaticism. ... In these 
moments of exaltation, the most inoffensive become 
dangerous; and the sight of the Roman toga and arms 
enrages them strangely." 

B — Methods of Securing Interest of Audience. 

1. (a) It is good dramatic economy which makes 




fc3 J * J DIEHSM-A^T^ 



ANALYSIS OF "MARY MAGDALENE" 119 

Verus, the Roman soldier and lover of Mary Magdalene, 
the person who has it in his power to save Christ. 

(c) The personality of Christ is the motive power 
which seems to direct Mary Magdalene's every act. 

2. (a) The character types are of great diversity, 
especially in the last act. A sharp parallel is drawn be- 
tween Pagan Philosophy and the Religion of Christ; the 
tumult of the mob is contrasted with the calm dignity 
of the Saviour's Voice; the rage of Verus and the panic 
of the cripples, with the quiet decision of Mary Mag- 
dalene. 

3. (a) There is the struggle between Yerus and Mary, 
and the inner struggle of Mary herself. In the back- 
ground is the conflict waged against Christ. 

(b) At the close of Act I we have the physical 
violence of the mob, which ceases at the sound of the 
Voice. 

4. (a) The scriptural theme, with its familiar char- 
acters and scenes, has in itself an appealing power. 

(b) The lavish setting of the opening scene, the 
reference to the Biblical characters near at hand, to the 
Parable of the Prodigal Son, etc., all tend to capture 
the attention of the audience at once. 



MISTRESS MOLLY" 



CHAPTER XI 
"MISTRESS MOLLY" 

A Play With Marginal Annotations 

INTRODUCTORY 

In further exemplification of the dramatic principles 
already enumerated, the author has written the little 
play which follows, placing analytical annotations in the 
margin, each annotation being referred by number to 
its proper place in the diagram, page 41. 

The author has made use of this play not because 
he labors under the delusion that it is of exceptional 
merit, but because he has endeavored, within the small 
compass of a single act, to follow most of the rules 
herein set forth. 

For the particular annotative method adopted indebt- 
edness is acknowledged to J. Berg Esenwein, who has 
utilized this system in the analysis of the stories col- 
lected in his entertaining and instructive work Study- 
ing the Short-Story* 

*Hinds Noble & Eldredge, New York, $1.25. 



123 



MISTRESS MOLLY : 



MISTRESS MOLLY 
A Patriotic Play in One Act 

CHARACTERS 

Captain Dorrington, a British officer. 
Joe Fleming, a Colonial scout. 
Corporal Hawkins, a British soldier. 
Molly Temperton, a patriot. 
British soldiers and American youths. 



The numbers refer to the diagram 
{pages 41-42.) 

III. B. 4 (a) 
There is an appeal to popular 
taste in the choice of a patri- 
otic theme. 



III. B. 2 (a) 
The characters are contrasted as 
far as possible. 



Place — A fort near Lake Champlain. 

Time — Spring of 1775; midnight and 
early dawn. 



I. 

The unities are observed. 



Scene. — Interior of a fort. The walls of 
the scene are designed to represent 
rough stone. There are doors in 
the center and right walls, and a 
grated window, with window ledge, 
at right of center door. A table 
and chairs are placed at left of 
center, and on the table is a large 

125 



II. 1 (b) 

The plot was suggested by the 

capture of Fort Ticonderoga. 



126 



"MISTRESS MOLLY" 



old-fashioned candelabrum contain- 
ing three lighted candles. 



At rise of curtain, captain dorrington 
and corporal hawkins are dis- 
covered, seated at the table. The 
latter is laboriously polishing the 
buttons of a British uniform. 
British soldiers are heard 
lustily outside. 



III. A. 3 (b) 

Natural introduction of vocal 



Captain Dorrington. Deuce take the 
luck! One dies of stagnation here in 
these benighted colonies. Better be 
buried alive than garrisoned in a ram- 
shackle old fortress in the heart of the 
wilderness. What say you, corporal? 

Corporal Hawkins. Hit are wery 
trying, sir. Social diwersions are most 
hinfrequent hin Hamerica, and hour 
grandest uniforms 'ave no hattractions 
for these 'oydenish country girls. 

Captain. True; yet me thinks these 
selfsame country maids would serve 
right royally to while away an idle hour. 
{Rises and yawns.) Heigh-ho! I'm 
weary of it all. Ten shillings, corporal, 
for the glimpse of a pretty girl to-night! 

Corporal. Taken, sir! 'Ow could you 
find a 'andsomer girl than 'er as brings 
us produce and prowisions from hacross 
the lake? 

Captain {heartily). Faith, you couldn't! 
Her cheeks are pinker than the apple 
blossoms that revel in her gran'sir's gar- 
den, her eyes ! — Ah, corporal, the waters 
of holy lake St. Sacrament itself are 
not so pure and limpid! Often have 



III. A. i (a) 
Prose is the vehicle of expression, 
an attempt being made to 
adopt the conversational style 
of the period. 



III. A. i (c) 
The Corporal speaks in dialect. 



III. A. s (a) 
Anticipation of a coming dramatic 
event. See annotation let- 
tered "W." 




MA^^ITJ B3IK;!12^I3^\Ii3jn>T- 



'MISTRESS MOLLY" 



129 



I watched her through the glass. 'Tis a 
pretty sight. Right sturdily doth she 
pull an oar through the sea-green billows 
of old Champlain, and straight as a die 
doth she steer her little craft to the old 
red farmhouse on the eastern shore. She 
is late in coming to-night. 'Tis well nigh 
twelve o'clock already. 

Corporal. She's wery cautious, sir. 
'T would never do to 'ave 'er neighbors 
learn 'ow cleverly she keeps a British 
fort supplied with fowls and wegetables. 
She'll come, never fear. 

Captain {laughing). Yes; her vener- 
able grandsire is far too penurious to 
renounce his nightly visit to a hungry 
garrison. (Sound of laughter outside.) 
Hark! What's that? 

Corporal (rising). Hif I mistake not, 
hit's the little lady now. (Listening.) 
The boys are wery heager to see 'er this 
hevening. 



I. 1 (a) 

This and the next few speeches 
are explanatory of prior oc- 
currences. 



HI. A. 3 fd) 
Emotional stimulus of noise nat- 
urally introduced. 



(The captain seems lost in thought for a 
moment.) 

Captain (aside). Heavens! What a 
temptation! But where's the harm? As 
Hawkins says we have few diversions. 
(Strikes table.) By Jove, I'll do it! 
(To corporal.) Corporal, when the 
little lady has sold her provisions, kindly 
ask her to step this way. 

Corporal (with surprise). What! 'Ere 
hinside the fort, sir? 

Captain (sharply). Yes. Why not? 
One must be amused, and the little coun- 
try girl will not betray us. We have 
been careful to hide the true state of 
affairs from the enemy, and our weak- 



Ill. A. 2 (b) 
'Asides" are used with greater 
freedom owing to the arti- 
ficial nature of the romantic 
Colonial play. 



III. A. 4 (b) 

A humanizing touch — the tedium 
of his surroundings induces the 
Captain to pursue a question- 
able line of conduct. 



130 "MISTRESS MOLLY" 

ness is not suspected. What harm, think 
you, can a slip of a girl and her feeble 
grandfather do an army of Great Brit- 
ain? Go — bid her enter. I will freshen 
up a bit and return presently. We must 
don our gayest attire, corporal, for we 
entertain to-night. Ha, ha, ha! 

(Exit CORPORAL, C.) 

Captain. Jove! I feel as elated as a 
school-boy. The little maid is right 
comely. Please Heaven that she hath a 
merry wit! 

(Exit CAPTAIN, R.) 

(Enter corporal, C, followed by . W. 

v Anticipation realized. 

MOLLY TEMPERTON.) 

Molly. Say it again, Corporal Haw- 
kins. I scarce believe such goodly for- 
tune mine. The great captain himself 
deigns to receive me? — say you so? 

Corporal. Yes, miss; hit's the cap- 
tain's hordors. 

Molly, (speaking out door, C.) Step 
this way, gran'sir. Captain Dorrington 
himself bids us enter. 

Corporal. Pardon, miss. 'E did not 
say as 'ow your grandfather was to 
come. 

Molly (innocently). Oh, but I cannot 
leave him alone in the night air. This 
spring weather is very trying to grand- 
pa's rheumatism. (Calling.) Come along, 
gran'sir, come along. 

Joe Fleming (outside). Yes, dearie, 
I'm a-comin'. 

(Enter joe, C. He is disguised as an old 
man with long white wig and heard, 



MISTRESS MOLLY" 



131 



and carries a 
and cane.) 



large market-basket 



Corporal {aside). 'Eavens! Hi'm hin 
for hit now. {To molly.) Be seated, 
miss. Hi'll speak to the captain. 

{Exit corporal, R.) 

(joe watches the corporal stealthily till 
he disappears, then steps briskly to 
door, C, and examines it critically.) 



Joe. See, Molly — it locks with an 
iron bar, A sweep of the arm, and 'tis 
open — so. {Unbolts door, then closes 
it; points to window.) In yonder grated 
window may be placed the signal-light. 
{Indicating candelabrum.) This candle- 
stick's the very thing. Canst find a way 
to lift it to the window ledge? 

Molly. Ay, trust me for that! The 
captain himself shall give the signal. 
When the three lights twinkle through 
the window bars, make ready; and when 
the last faint candle flickers out, strike 
tor liberty! 

Joe. Bravo ! What a stanch little pat- 
riot you are! Faith, I half suspect 
you love the colonies better than you 
love Joe Fleming. I'm green with jeal- 
ousy. Come here till I tell thee so. 
Plague take this badge of decrepitude! 
{Removes wig and beard.) There — 
dost love me better now? 

Molly {tenderly). I love thee always, 
dear. 

Joe. And I — Oh, Molly, I cannot 
let you stay here in this grim old fortress. 



III. A. 5 (b) 
Anticipation of the use to which 
the candlestick is later to 

be put. See annotation let- 
tered -X". 



III. B. 4 (b) 
The audience is permitted to 
share the secret of Joe's dis- 
guise. 



132 



"MISTRESS MOLLY" 



to-night. Think of the dangers that 
beset thee! These soldiers are reckless 

and unscrupulous 

Molly. Hush, dear! The chance has 
come — let's be strong enough to take it. 
Our little adventure, begun in sport, has 
paved the way for a mighty victory. 
The hand of Fate is in it. Don't worry, 
Joe. These men will be like puppets, 
and I shall pull the strings. {Sound 
of steps outside.) Quick! The captain 
is coming. 



III. A. 4 (a) 
Joe's reluctance at leaving Molly 
— a humanizing touch. 



III. B. i (c) 
The "little adventure" is the 
event out of which the sub- 
sequent action is evolved. 



(joe resumes his disguise quickly.) 
{Enter captain, R.) 

Captain. Ah, my little fascinator, 
what have you brought me to-night? 

Molly. Alas, sir, my basket is empty! 
Every chicken and even my last glass of 
jelly has been sold to your ravenous sol- 
diers. 

Captain. But surely you have a sweet 
smile of welcome for me, or perchance a 
sweeter kiss? 

Joe {muttering). The scoundrel! 

{Recovers himself and coughs violently.) 



Captain. Why, grandpa, your bronchial 
tubes are grievously affected. Let me 
prescribe the open air — these rough old 
walls are damp and chilly. {To molly.) 
My pretty, suppose you persuade grandpa 
to ruminate down on the lake side for an 
hour or so. I much prefer to see thee 
quite alone. 

Molly {curtsying). I'm at thy service, 



"MISTRESS MOLLY" 133 

sir. {To joe.) Wait for me, gran'- 
sir, near the boat. Captain Dorrington 
desires to talk with me. 
Joe {as if deaf). Eh? What for? III. A 5 (a) 

, _ „ _, . , . L . . The Captain remembers "grand - 

Molly. Oh, he's going to bargain for pa 's" deafness later. See 

to-morrow's dinner. {With a sly wink.) annotation lettered "Y". 

You know how cheaply I sell provisions 
to the soldiers her 

Joe. Yes, I know. You're a good 
little girl, Molly. {In a hoarse whisper.) 
Make the price a dear one. Squeeze 
the Britishers dry. Ha, ha, ha! I'll 
wait for thee down by the landing. 

Molly. Very well. I'll meet thee 
there. 

{Exit joe, C. The captain opens the 
door for him, and bolts it after he has 
withdrawn.) 

Captain {aside). Deuce take me if the 
little baggage isn't glad to be rid of him. 
Methinks she'll prove an easy conquest. 
{To molly.) Make yourself at home, 
my dear. 'Tis rare indeed that Captain 
Dorrington has a chance to play the host. 

Molly. You are very kind. 

Captain {graciously). Not at all. 
The pleasure's mine, I'm sure. Not every 
British officer can boast a pretty g'rl 
to cheer his solitude. 

Molly {coquettishly). No; nor every 
country maid the acquaintance of a 
British officer. 

Captain {boisterously) . Well put, egad ! 
You're luckier, I trow, than half your 
tomboy companions. Tell me, my dear, 
what the young people of your neighbor- 
hood do to enliven the dulness of an 
evening. 



134 



MISTRESS MOLLY' 



Molly. Oh, there's now and then a 
quilting bee, and sometimes we have 
church "socials" where we play the most 
exciting games. 

Captain. Do you indeed? And what, 
I pray, are some of these exciting games? 

Molly (shyly). "Drop the handker- 
chief" is one, and — and we also play 
"snuff the candle." 

Captain. "Snuff the candle?" What 
may that game be like? 

Molly. Well, you see there are lighted 
candles like — why, like those there in 
the candlestick. Then some one is 
blindfolded, and — (Clapping her hands.) 
Oh, captain, let's ask the soldiers in and 
play the game. It's, oh, such fun! 

Captain (doubtfully). But — but that 
will spoil our tete-d-tete. 

Molly. Yes, I know; but it's lots 
jollier to have a crowd. Besides, cap- 
tain, it's a — er — kissing game. 

Captain (with surprise). A what? Oh, 
I say, my dear, we don't need a crowd to 
play that sort of game. 

Molly (petulantly). Oh, yes, we do. 
(Pouting.) I ought to know. I've 
played it. (In a wheedling tone.) Now, 
captain, please invite the soldiers in. 
I — I want to see them. Don't be 
squeamish. 

Captain. Well, well! you certainly 
have a winning way with you. The 
boys will be glad enough to come. (Call- 
ing.) Ho, corporal! 



III. A. 5 (a) 
Anticipation of the game to 
follow. See annotation let- 
tered "Z". 



III. B. 3 (a) 

A conflict of minds. 



(Enter corporal, R.) 
Corporal (saluting). What's wan ted, sir? 



"MISTRESS MOLLY' 



i35 



Captain (returning salute). Ask the 
boys to step this way. Our little guest 
here desires to (ha, ha ha!) play games 
with them. 

What! Hall. of them, sir? 
Exactly. Be quick about 



Corporal. 
Captain. 
it, please. 
Corporal. 



Wery well, sir. 



II. 3 (a) 

The pivotal point of the plot. 
The Captain's permission for 
the soldiers to enter leads 
to the ultimate capture of 
the fort. 



(Exit CORPORAL, R.) 

Captain. Now, my dainty little lady, 
you are about to behold the mighty troops 
of good old England. In serried ranks 
they shall stand before you 

Molly (interrupting). The entire gar- 
rison, mind. Every British soldier must 
do me homage. 

Captain (laughing) . Ha, ha, ha! What 
an exacting little despot you are, to be 
sure! Well, you shall see every mother's 
son of them. (Sound of tramping out- 
side.) And here they come. 



(Enter corporal, R., followed by soldiers. 
Some of the soldiers are shy and awk- 
ward, others, self-confident and bold.) 



III. B. 2 (a) 
Contrast in the appearance of 
the soldiers. 



Captain (to soldiers). Lads, this is 
our guest — Mistress Molly Temperton. 
Salute her. 

Soldiers salute.) 



Molly (clapping her hands). Oh, isn't 
it pretty! (To captain — demurely.) 
Would you mind having them do it 
again? 

Captain (with admiration). Egad, 



136 



"MISTRESS MOLLY" 



you're a cool one! {To soldiers.) Boys, 
the little lady here is going to teach us a 
new game. They play it at (ha, ha ha!) 
church "socials" across the lake. 

Molly. Yes; and — and it's a mon- 
strously exciting game. {Takes can- 
delabrum from table, watching the soldiers 
cunningly meanwhile.) You see, I — I 
place this candlestick on the window 
ledge — so. {Places candelabrum at win- 
dow; pauses as if fearing that she has 
aroused suspicion, then sighs with relief.) 
Ah! {Turns to soldiers abruptly.) Has 
each of you a pocket-handkerchief? {All 
reply, taking handkerchiefs from pockets. 
Some answer, " Yes;" others, " Yes, mum," 
"Certainly," etc.) Good! Now will you 
be so kind as to tie your handkerchiefs 
tightly about your eyes? 

Captain {remonstrating). Why, my 
dear, not all of us at once, surely? 

Molly. Yes, all at once. I know 
how the game is played. 

Captain. Yes, but 

Molly {imperiously). Not another 
word! {Shyly.) Do you think I have 
no modesty? Would I wish to kiss the 
lucky man with all the others looking 
on. Fie, captain! Your knowledge of 
women is not over keen for one who wears 
a soldier's uniform. 

Captain {hesitating). Perhaps not; 
yet 

Molly. Oh, captain, how monstrously 
dense you are! {In a loud whisper.) 
Suppose — er — suppose I want to help 
you win the prize? 

Captain. By Jove, what a little witch 
you are! I ween there's method in thy 



III. B. i (b) 
The candlestick serves the dou- 
ble purpose of an object in 
the game and the signal to 
the Colonists outside. 
X. 
This use of the candlestick has 
been anticipated. 



HI. B. 3 (a) 
Mental conflict follows. 



'MISTRESS MOLLY' 



i37 



madness. (To soldiers.) Well, lads, let 
it be as Mistress Temperton ordains. 
Bind the kerchiefs firmly about your fore- 
heads, and don't dare remove them, 
whatever happens, unless I so command. 
I'll set you a good example. (To molly.) 
Wilt give me thine assistance, Mistress 
Molly? 

Molly. Yes indeed. (Ties handker- 
chief about captain's eyes. It should 
be so arranged that he can easily see 
through it. Soldiers, including corporal, 
help one another adjust blindfolds.) 
There, 'tis done! Canst see? 

Captain. No, i' faith! I'm totally 
bereft of sight. 

Molly ( 10 soldiers) . And are the 
rest of you as firmly hoodwinked? (Sol- 
diers answer affirmatively as before.) Very 
well. We're ready now, I think. Cap- 
tain, I'll turn thee about thrice that 
you may not find the candlestick too 
easily. Then, if thy wits be sharp and 
thy lungs right strong, three trials should 
suffice to snuff each candle on the window 
ledge and give thee thy reward. 

Captain (impatiently). Nectar of the 
gods! Hurry, little Hebe; my lips are 
on fire ! 

Molly. Make ready then. (Turns cap- 
tain about three times, counting as she 
turns.) Once — twice — thrice. Now 
find the candles if you can. I wish 
thee luck! (captain moves toward the 
window with hands outstretched, pausing 
before the candelabrum.) Bravo! Now 
blow right lustily, (captain blows, 
and one candle is extinguished.) Good! 
Again, (molly edges toward door, C. 



III. A. s (a) 

Anticipation of later conduct 
of soldiers. See annotation 
lettered "Q". 



Anticipation of game realized. 



III. B. 1 (c) 
touch of irony: the Captain 
himself blows out the candles, 
which is the signal for the 
attack on the fort. 



138 



"MISTRESS MOLLY' 



captain blows a second time, and another 
candle is extinguished. The stage lights 
are lowered as each candle goes out. molly 
applauds as captain extinguishes the 
second candle.) Excellent, captain, ex- 
cellent ! 

Captain {turning quickly toward her). 
What are you doing at that door? 

Molly. How do you know I'm at the 
door? 

Captain {stammering) . Why — why 

— because 

Molly {severely). Yes; because you're 
• cheating. So, my clever captain, you can 
see! The honest country youths who 
play this game play fair. Their manners 
were not learned at George's court. {Opens 
door.) I'm going home. 

Captain {sharply). Stop! I com- 
mand it. 

Molly {snapping her fingers). That 
for thy commands ! 

Captain. What! You dare defy me? 
(captain tears his handkerchief from his 
eyes, and quickly extinguishes the re- 
maining candle. The only light on 
the stage is that which shines faintly 
through the doorway. The lake is seen 
through the open door, and the clouds 
in the distance are tinged with the pur- 
ple gloiv of dawn.) 



HI. B. 3 (a) 

Mental conflict becomes sharper 



III. A. 3 (a) 
The emotional stimulus of light 
is introduced naturally by the 
tinge of dawn seen through the 
open door 



Molly {speaking from doorway). Yes 
I do defy thee. See, 'tis daybreak. 
Long will thy country remember this 
day! 

Captain. What do you mean? 

Molly. Oh, you will learn my mean- 
ing soon enough. Good-morrow. 




VII^T-15^13.:^ SAKBOf 



'MISTRESS MOLLY 



141 



Captain. Stay! You promised me a 
kiss. 

Molly. But you cheated to obtain 
it. 

Captain (striding forward and seizing 
her roughly in his arms). Yes, I cheated 
— cheated that I might crush thy haughty 
spirit, little rebel. What are you going 
to do about it, eh? You are in my power. 
All these soldiers here are at my beck 
and call. Poor old grandpa is your only 
protector — feeble old grandpa, who waits 
on the shore of the lake till morning 
for his wayward grandchild to return to 
him. Ha, ha, ha! Come — give me 
the kiss, my pretty, or I'll take it of my 
own free will. 

Molly (screaming and struggling vio- 
lently) . Let me go, sir. I 

Captain. Scratch and scream, my 
little temptress! — 'twill avail thee little. 
Grandpa is a wee bit deaf, you know. 



III. B. 3 (b) 
Here the conflict becomes phys- 
ical, and the Captain triumphs 
for the moment. 



The Captain recalls the fact thai 
"grandpa" is deaf. 



(Enter joe Fleming hurriedly, C. He has 
discarded his false wig and beard.) 



Joe. Not so deaf as you surmise, 
my valiant captain. (Sternly.) Release 
Mistress Temperton instantly, or I'll show 
thee how straight a Continental soldier 
shoots. 



III. B. 3 (b) 

With the appearance of Joe the 
Captain is in turn overpow- 
ered by physical force. 



{Aims pistol at captain.) 



Captain (starting back). What means 
this threat? I 

Molly. It means that I have won 
the game. Captain Dorrington, I bid 
thee surrender. 



14- 



1 'MISTRESS MOLLY 



(Enter country youths, C. They stand 
near the door with muskets aimed 
at British soldiers, who are huddled 
ter at L.) 



Captain (fiercely). Surrender? Never. 
Company, attention! A thousand curses! 
They have no arms, and are standing 
in the corner like awkward dunces. Off 
with those kerchiefs, men! To arms, 
I say! 

(The soldiers, including corporal, remove 

kerchiefs, and stand blinking, as if 

dazed.) 

Joe (quietly but firmly). Captain 

Dorrington, resistance is useless. You 

are surrounded by Colonists on every 

side. I demand the surrender of this 

fort. 

(The captain starts forward angrily, but 

pauses before the lowered muskets, 

as though realizing that his efforts 

must prove ineffectual. Gradually he 

assumes a nonchalant manner.) 

Captain (shrugging his shoulders). 

Lads, we're overpowered. We've danced 

and now must pay the fiddler. (To joe.) 

We submit, sir, to the fortunes of war. 

Joe (courteously). You will find our 
terms most rational. 

Molly. Well, captain, I've tarried 
over long, but thy company is vastly 
entertaining. I'll think of thee when 
next I play that monstrously exciting 
game called "snuff the candle." Again 
I bid thee good-morning. 

Captain (with elaborate politeness). 
Good-morning, Mistress Temperton. 
That little game will cost me dear. 



The conduct of the soldiers was 
anticipated when the Captain 
instructed them not to re- 
move the kerchiefs till ordered 
by him to do so. 



"MISTRESS MOLLY" 143 

but then — who knows? — mayhap 'tis . , , IIL 4\4( a > , 

Another humanizing touch — the 
worth it. Captain is courteous and a 

"good loser." 

(mistress molly makes a deep curtsy, 
and goes out, C.) 



A 

PROGRAM OF STUDY 



CHAPTER XII 
A PROGRAM OF STUDY 

In studying a specific play the student will doubtless 
find it profitable to make marginal annotations after 
the style indicated in the preceding chapter. Before 
attempting this he should first thoroughly familiarize 
himself with the story of the play, since an analysis 
of parts is futile without a comprehensive knowledge 
of the whole. 

The following program of study, arranged somewhat 
in the form of an examination paper, used in connection 
with the analytical diagram (page 41), should prove 
of assistance: 

1. To what extent have the unities been observed? 

2. Note instances in which characters have related 
events which have occurred prior to the opening of the 
play. 

3 . What influence have these past events exerted on the 
trend of the action? 

4. Is the plot borrowed or original? 

5. Does the play recount more than a single story? 
If so, distinguish the separate stories. 

6. What is the method of plot development? If it 
represents a rise and fall of fortunes, where does the 
rise end, and the fall begin? If the action is concerned 

147 



148 A PROGRAM OF STUDY 

with the fall merely, what forces have given impetus to 
the downward motion? 

7. Is the vehicle of expression adapted to the theme 
and method of treatment? 

8. Name instances where music, light, tumult, etc., 
are introduced as essential parts of the play itself. 

9. Note all instances of anticipation 

10. Is the use of any implement necessary at some 
crisis in the play? If so, note how and when it is brought 
into the scene. 

11. Is there any event out of which the subsequent 
action is evolved? 

12. Note instances of economy in the introduction 
of characters or objects. 

13. Are the character types diversified? Note any 
further use of contrast. 

14. Is the story of the play based on conflict? Note 
minor instances of conflict, 

15. Does the theme appeal to popular taste? Name 
instances in which the audience is aware of a situation 
which is represented as unknown to certain of the char- 
acters. 



APPENDIXES 



ANNOTATED PLAYS 



I. The Screen Scene from The School for Scandal 
II. The Trial Scene from The Merchant of Venice 
III. Albert Smith's Dramatization of The Cricket on the Hearth 



IV. A List of Plays Recommended for Study 



APPENDIX I 



The Screen Scene from 
The School for Scandal 



APPENDIX I 



INTRODUCTORY 



As an example of masterly art in the handling of a 
dramatic situation, the Screen Scene from Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan's The School for Scandal is here 
printed. 

This comedy was first produced at the Drury Lane 
Theatre, London, in 1777, and is a keen satire on the 
manners and affectations of contemporary society. For 
the benefit of those readers who may be unfamiliar with 
the story of the play, the following explanation of the 
plot is given : 

Sir Peter Teazle "marries a young wife," who was 
"educated in the country." After her marriage, Lady 
Teazle's desire to become a "woman of fashion" leads 
her to associate with Lady Sneerwell and other scandal- 
loving celebrities, and to engage in a mild flirtation with 
one Joseph Surface. Joseph's "real attachment" is to 
Sir Peter's ward, Maria (or rather to her fortune), but, 
rinding in his brother Charles a "favored rival," he 
has been obliged to "mask his pretentions," and Lady 
Teazle is unaware of them. Joseph is, in reality, "artful, 
selfish and malicious," but "with all his acquaintance 
he passes for a youthful miracle of prudence, good sense 

153 



154 APPENDIX 

and benevolence," while his brother Charles, though 
reputed to be "the most dissipated and extravagant 
young fellow in the kingdom," is, in point of fact, honest, 
genuine and warm-hearted. Sir Peter is jealous of his 
young wife, but does not suspect her interest in Joseph, 
erroneously supposing that Charles is the one whom she 
favors. 

The Screen Scene follows: 



THE 

SCREEN SCENE 

FROM 

"THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL" 

By 

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 

ACT IV 

Scene III. — A library in Joseph sur- 
face's House, London. A large 
screen, Pembroke table, with a book 
on it; chairs. 

Joseph surface and a servant 
discovered. 

Joseph S. No letter from Lady Teazle? 

Serv. No, sir. 

Joseph S. I am surprised she has not 
sent, if she is prevented from coming. 
Sir Peter certainly does not suspect me. 
Yet I hope I may not lose the heiress 
through the scrape I have drawn myself 
into with the wife; however, Charles's 
imprudence and bad character are great 
points in my favor. [Knocking heard 
'without.] 

155 



156 



THE SCREEN SCENE 



Serv. Sir, I believe that must be 
Lady Teazle. 

Joseph S. Hold! See whether it is 
or not before you go to the door: I have 
a particular message for you if it should 
be my brother. 

Serv. Tis her ladyship, sir; she al- 
ways leaves her chair at the milliner's 
in the next street. 

Joseph S. Stay, stay; draw that screen 
before the window — (servant does so) 
— that will do; — my opposite neighbor 
is a lady of a curious temper, (servant 
exit.) I have a difficult hand to play in 
this affair. Lady Teazle has lately sus- 
pected my views on Maria; but she must 
by no means be let into the secret, — at 
least, till I have her more in my power. 



Note the reference to the mil- 
liner and the screen. 



Enter lady teazle. 



Lady T. What, sentiment in soliloquy 
now? Have you been very impatient? 
O Lud! don't pretend to look grave. \ 
vow I couldn't come before. 

Joseph S. O, madam, punctuality is 
a species of constancy very unfashion- 
able in a lady of quality. 



Observe the repeated references 
to Joseph's "sentiments" until 
the explosive denunciation of 
these sentiments by Sir Peter 
at the close of the scene. 



[Places chairs, and sits after lady teazle 
is seated. 



Lady T. Upon my word you ought to 
pity me. Do you know, Sir Peter is 
grown so ill-natured to me of late, and 
so jealous of Charles, too — that's the 
best of the story, isn't it? 

Joseph S. {aside). I am glad my 
scandalous friends keep that up. 




ihtk^iky iiLg.v2^a^ 




ku.k^ 's-'^is/i^sr 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCAXDAL 161 

Lady T. I am sure I wish he would 
let Maria marry him, and then perhaps 
he would be convinced; don't you, Mr. 
Surface? 

Joseph S. (aside). Indeed I do not. 
(Aloud.) Oh, certainly I do; for then 
my dear Lady Teazle would be also con- 
vinced how wrong her suspicions were 
of my having any design on the silly 
girl. 

Lady T. Well, well, I'm inclined to 

believe you. But isn't it provoking to 

have the most ill-natured things said 

of one? And there's my friend Lady 

Sneerwell has circulated I don't know how 

many scandalous tales of me, and all 

without any foundation, too — that's 

what vexes me. 

Joseph S. Ay, madam, to be sure. Xote the exquisite satire of the 
^v , . ,, i . . ensuing dialogue. 

that is the provoking circumstance — 

without foundation; yes, yes, there's 

the mortification, indeed; for when a 

scandalous story is believed against 

one, there certainly is no comfort like 

the consciousness of having deserved it. 

Lady T. Xo, to be sure, then I'd 
forgive their malice; but to attack me, 
who am realty so innocent, and who never 
say an ill-natured thing of anybody — 
that is, of any friend; and then Sir Peter, 
too, to have him so peevish, and so sus- 
picious, when I know the integrity of 
my own heart — indeed, 'tis monstrous! 

Joseph S. But my dear Lady Teazle, 
'tis your own fault if you suffer it. 
When a husband entertains a ground- 
less suspicion of his wife, and withdraws 
his confidence from her, the original com- 
pact is broken, and she owes it to the 



i6 2 THE SCREEN SCENE 

honor of her sex to endeavor to outwit 
him. 

Lady T. Indeed! — so that if he sus- 
pects me without cause it follows that 
the best way of curing his jealousy is to 
give him reason for't. 

Joseph S. Undoubtedly — for your 
husband should never be deceived in 
you, — and in that case it becomes you to 
be frail in compliment to his discern- 
ment. 

Lady T. To be sure, what you say is 
very reasonable; and when the conscious- 
ness of my innocence 

Joseph S. Ah, my dear madam, there 
is the great mistake; 'tis this very con- 
scious innocence that is of the greatest 
prejudice to you. What is it makes you 
negligent of forms, and careless of the 
world's opinion? Why, the conscious- 
ness of your own innocence. What 
makes you thoughtless in your conduct, 
and apt to run into a thousand little 
imprudences? Why, the consciousness 
of your own innocence. What makes 
you impatient of Sir Peter's temper, and 
outrageous at his suspicions? Why, the 
consciousness of your innocence. 

Lady T. 'Tis very true! 

Joseph S. Now, my dear Lady Teazle, 
if you would but once make a trifling 
faux pas, you can't conceive how cautious 
you would grow, and how ready to 
humor and agree with your husband. 

Lady T. Do you think so? 

Joseph S. Oh! I am sure on't; and 
then you would find all scandal would 
cease at once; for, in short, your char- 
acter at present is like a person in a 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 163 

plethora, absolutely dying from too much 
health. 

Lady T. So, so; then I perceive your 
prescription is that I must sin in my own 
defense, and part with my virtue to pre- 
serve my reputation. 

Joseph S. Exactly so, upon my credit, 
ma'am. 

Lady T. Well, certainly this is the 
oddest doctrine, and the newest receipt 
for avoiding calumny! 

Joseph S. An infallible one, believe 
me. Prudence, like experience, must 
be paid for. 

Lady T. Why, if my understanding 
were once convinced 

Joseph S. Oh, certainly, madam, 
your understanding should be convinced. 
Yes, yes — heaven forbid I should per- 
suade you to do anything you thought 
wrong. No, no, I have too much honor 
to desire it. 

Lady T. Don't you think we may 
as well leave honor out of the argu- 
ment? 

[Rises. 

Joseph S. Ah! the ill effects of your A gHmpse of Lady TeazIe > s true 
country education, I see, still remain with character, 

you. [Rises. 

Lady T. I doubt they do, indeed; 
and I will fairly own to you that if I 
could be persuaded to do wrong, it 
would be by Sir Peter's ill-usage sooner 
than your honorable logic, after all. 

Joseph S. Then, by this hand, which 

he is unworthy of 

[Taking her hand. 

Enter servant. 



1 64 THE SCREEN SCENE 

S 'death, you blockhead; what do you 
want? 

Serv. I beg your pardon, sir, but I 
thought you would not choose Sir Peter 
to come up without announcing him. 

Joseph S. Sir Peter! Oons — the 
devil ! 

Lady T. Sir Peter! O Lud — I'm 
ruined — I'm ruined! 

Serv. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in. 

Lady T. Oh! I'm quite undone! 

What will become of me? Now, Mr. The audience shares the secret 
. of Lady Teazles hiding-place. 

Logic — Oh! mercy, sir, he s on the 

stairs. I'll get behind here, and if 

ever I'm so imprudent again 

[Goes behind screen. 

Joseph S. Give me that book. 

[Sits down, servant pretends to adjust 

his chair. 

Enter sir petee . 

Sir P. Ay, ever improving himself. 
Mr. Surface, Mr. Surface. 

[ Taps Joseph on the shoulder. 

Joseph S. Oh! my dear Sir Peter, I 
beg your pardon — (gapping — throws 
away the book) — I have been dozing 
over a stupid book. Well, I am much 
obliged to you for this call. You haven't 
been here, I believe, since I fitted up 
this room. Books, you know, are the 
only things I am a coxcomb in. 

Sir. P. 'Tis very neat indeed. — Well, 
well, that's proper; and you can even 
make your screen a source of knowledge 
— hung, I perceive, with maps? 

[Walking up towards screen. 

Joseph S. O, yes, I find great use in 
that screen. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



l6: 



[Turning sir peter from the screen. 

Sir P. I dare say you must, certainly, 
when you want to find anything in a 
hurry. 

Joseph S. (aside). Aye, or to hide 
anything in a hurry, either. 

Sir P. Well, I have a little private 
business 

Joseph S. You need not stay. 

(To the SERVANT.) 

Serv. No, sir. (Exit.) 

Joseph S. Here's a chair, Sir Peter — 
I beg 

Sir P. (sits). Well, now we are 
alone, there is a subject, my dear friend, 
on which I wish to unburden my mind 
to you — a point of the greatest moment 
to my peace; in short, my good friend, 
Lady Teazle's conduct of late has made 
me very unhappy. 

Josephs, (seated). Indeed! I am very 
sorry to hear it. 

Sir P. Yes, 'tis but too plain she has 
not the least regard for me; but what's 
worse, I have pretty good authority to 
suppose she has formed an attachment to 
another. 

Josephs. Indeed! You astonish me! 

Sir P. Yes; and, between ourselves, 
I think I've discovered the person. 

Joseph S. How! You alarm me ex- 
ceedingly. 

Sir P. Ay, my dear friend, I knew 
you would sympathize with me ! 

Joseph S. Yes — believe me, Sir Peter, 
such a discovery would hurt me just as 
much as it would you. 

Sir P. I am convinced of it. Ah! it 
is a happiness to have a friend whom we 



Creation of suspense — the au- 
dience is eagerly anticipating 
Sir Peter's discovery of Ladv 
Teazle. 



1 66 



THE SCREEN SCENE 



can trust even with one's family secrets. 
But have you no guess who I mean? 

Joseph S. I haven't the most distant 
idea. It can't be Sir Benjamin Back- 
bite? 

Sir P. 
Charles? 

Joseph 

Sir P. 



Oh, no! What say you to 



S. My brother! Impossible! 
Oh! my dear friend, the good- 
ness of your own heart misleads you. 
You judge of others by yourself. 

Joseph S. Certainly, Sir Peter, the 
heart that is conscious of its own integ- 
rity is ever slow to credit another's 
treachery. 

Sir P. True — but your brother has 
no sentiment — you never hear him 
talk so. 

Joseph S. Yet I can't but think Lady 
Teazle herself has too much principle. 

Sir P. Ay, — but what is principle 
against the flattery of a handsome, lively 
young fellow? 

Joseph S. That's very true. 

Sir P. And then, you know, the 
difference of our ages makes it very 
improbable that she should have any 
very great affection for me; and if she 
were to be frail, and I were to make it 
public, why the town would only laugh 
at me, the foolish old bachelor who had 
married a girl. 

Joseph S. That's true, to be sure — 
they would laugh. 

Sir P. Laugh — ay, and make ballads 
and paragraphs, and the devil knows 
what of me. 

Joseph S. No, you must never make 
it public. 



Observe how Joseph's propensity 
for uttering "sentiments" is 
made to serve a didactic as 
well as a dramatic purpose. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 167 

Sir P. But then, that the nephew of 
my old friend, Sir Oliver, should be the 
person to attempt such a wrong hurts 
me more nearly. 

Joseph S. Ay, there's the point. 
When ingratitude barbs the dart of 
injury, the wound has double danger in 
it. 

Sir Peter. Ay — I, that was, in a 
manner, left his guardian; in whose house 
he has been so often entertained; who 
never in my life denied him — any advice. 

Joseph S. O, 'tis not to be credited. 
There may be a man capable of such 
baseness, to be sure; but for my part 
till you can give me positive proofs, I 
cannot but doubt it. However, if it 
should be proved on him, he is no longer 
a brother of mine — I disclaim kindred 
with him: for the man who can break 
through the laws of hospitality and tempt 
the wife of his friend, deserves to be 
branded as the pest of society. 

Sir P. What a difference there is 
between you! What noble sentiments! 

Joseph S. Yet I cannot suspect 
Lady Teazle's honor. 

Sir P. I am sure I wish to think well 
of her, and to remove all ground of 
quarrel between us. She has lately re- 
proached me more than once with hav- 
ing made no settlement on her: and, 
in our last quarrel, she almost hinted 
that she should not break her heart if I 
was dead. Now, as we seem to differ 
in our ideas of expense, I have resolved 

she shall have her own way, and be her Revelation to Lady Teazle of sir 
own mistress in that respect, for the Peter's real nobility of char- 

future; and if I were to die she will find 



1 68 THE SCREEN SCENE 

I have not been inattentive to her inter- 
est while living. Here, my friend, are 
the drafts of two deeds, which I wish 
to have your opinion on. By one, she 
will enjoy eight hundred a year inde- 
pendent while I live; and, by the other, 
the bulk of my fortune after my death. 

Joseph S. This conduct, Sir Peter, 
is indeed truly generous. (Aside.) I 
wish it may not corrupt my pupil. 

Sir P. Yes, I am determined she shall 
have no cause to complain, though I 
would not have her acquainted with the 
latter instance of my affection yet 
awhile. 

Joseph S. (Aside). Nor I, if I could 
help it. 

Sir P. And now, my dear friend, if 
you please, we will talk over the situa- 
tion of your hopes with Maria. 

Joseph S. (softly). O, no, Sir Peter; 
another time, if you please. 

Sir P. I am sensibly chagrined at 
the little progress you seem to make in 
her affections. 

Joseph S. I beg you will not mention 
it, sir. What are my disappointments 
when your happiness is in debate? (A side.) 
'Sdeath! I will be ruined every way. 

Sir P. And though you are averse to 
my acquainting Lady Teazle with your 
passion, I'm sure she's not your enemy 
in the affair. 

Joseph S. Pray, Sir Peter, now, oblige 
me. I am really too much affected by 
the subject we have been speaking of, 
to bestow a thought on my own concerns. 
The man who is intrusted with his friend's 
distresses can never 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



ioq 



Re-enter servant. 



Well, sir? 

Sen. Your brother, sir, is speaking to a 
gentleman in the street, and says he 
knows you are within. 

Joseph S. 'Sdeath, blockhead, I'm 
not within — I'm out for the day. 

Sir P„ Stay — hold — a thought has 
struck me ! You shall be at home. 

Joseph S. Well, well, let him up. 
{Exit servant.) {Aside.) He'll inter- 
rupt Sir Peter, however. 

Sir P. Now, my good friend, oblige 
me I entreat you. Before Charles comes, 
let me conceal myself somewhere — 
then do you tax him on the point we have 
been talking, and his answer may satisfy 
me at once. 

Joseph S. fie, Sir Peter! would you 
have me join in so mean a trick? To 
trepan my brother, too? 

Sir P.- Nay, you tell me you are 
sure he is innocent; if so, you do him the 
greatest service by giving him an op- 
portunity to clear himself, and you will 
set my heart at rest. Come, you shall 
not refuse me: {Going up) here, behind 
the screen will be — Hey ! what the 
devil! there seems to be one listener here 
already; I'll swear I saw a petticoat. 

Joseph S. Ha! ha! ha! Well this is 
ridiculous enough. I'll tell you, Sir 
Peter, though I hold a man of intrigue 
to be a most despicable character, yet 
you know, it does not follow that one is 
to be an absolute Joseph, either! Hark'ee, 
'tis a little French milliner — a silly rogue 
that plagues me, — and having some 



Increase in suspense. 



A natural touch. It is at the 
mjJiner's that Lad}'' Teazle 
"always leaves her chair." 



THE SCREEN SCENE 



character to lose, on your coming, sir, 
she ran behind the screen. 

Sir P. Ah! Joseph! Joseph! Did I 
ever think that you — But, egad she 
has overheard all I have been saying of 
my wife. 

Joseph S. O, 'twill never go further, 
you may depend upon it. 

Sir P. No? then, faith, let her hear 
it out. Here's a closet will do as well. 

Joseph S. Well, go in there. 

Sir P. Sly rogue! sly rogue! 

[Going into the closet. 

Joseph S. A narrow escape, indeed; 
and a curious situation I'm in, to part 
man and wife in this manner. 

Lady T. {peeping). Couldn't I steal 
off? 

Joseph S. Keep close, my angel! 

Sir P. {peeping out). Joseph, tax 
him home. 

Joseph S. Back, my dear friend! 

Lady T. Couldn't you lock Sir Peter 
in? 

Joseph S. Be still, my life! 

Sir P. {peeping). You're sure the 
little milliner won't blab? 

Joseph S. In, in, my dear Sir Peter. 
'Fore Gad, I wish I had a key to the 
door. 

Enter charles surface. 



The interest of the audience is 
further enhanced by knowledge 
of Sir Peter's concealment. 



Charles S. Holloa! brother, what has 
been the matter? Your fellow would 
not let me up at first. What! have you 
had a Jew or a wench with you. 

Joseph S. Neither, brother, I assure 
you. 

Charles S. But what has made Sir 




^%1ST33I'2J I'lII^IFCaSvO 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



73 



Peter steal off? I thought he had been 
with you. 

Joseph S. He -cC'tzs u brother ; but hearing 
you were coming, he did not choose to stay. 

Charles S. What? was the old gentle- 
man afraid I wanted to borrow money of 
him? 

Joseph S. No, sir; but I am sorry to 
find, Charles, that you have lately given 
that worthy man grounds for great uneasi- 
ness. 

Charles S. Yes, they tell me I do that 
to a great many worthy men. But 
how so, pray? 

Joseph S. To be plain with you, 
brother, he thinks you are endeavoring 
to gain Lady Teazle's affections from 
him? 

Charles S. Who, I? O Lud, not I, 
upon my word. Ha! ha! ha! ha! So 
the old fellow has found out that he has 
got a young wife, has he? 

Joseph S. This is no subject to jest 
on, brother. He who can laugh 

Charles S. True, true, as you were 
going to say; then, seriously, I never had 
the least idea of what you charge me 
with, upon my honor. 

Joseph S. Well, it will give Sir Peter 
great satisfaction to hear this. 

Charles S. To be sure, I once thought 
the lady seemed to have taken a fancy 
to me; but, upon my soul, I never gave 
her the least encouragement: — besides, 
you know my attachment to Maria. 

Joseph S. But, sure, brother, even if 
Lady Teazle had betrayed the fondest 
partiality for you 

Charles S. Why, look'ee, Joseph, I 



Sir Peter has already stated that 
he never in his life denied 
Charles — "any advice!" 



174 THE SCREEN SCENE 

hope I shall never deliberately do a dis- 
honorable action; but if a pretty woman 
was purposely to throw herself in my 
way, and that pretty woman married to 
a man old enough to be her father 

Joseph S. Well 

Charles S. Why, I believe I should 
be obliged to 

Joseph S. What? 

Charles S. To borrow a little of your 

~~~~i:+„ ^~*^ „n "D 4- u 4-u „ 1 Observe the contrast in the con- 

morality, that S all. But, brother, do ver sation and character of the 

you know now that you surprise me ex- brothers, 

ceedingly by naming me with Lady 
Teazle; for, i'faith I always understood 
you were her favorite. 

Joseph S. O, for shame, Charles! 
This retort is foolish. 

Charles S. Nay, I swear I have seen 
you exchange such significant glances 

Joseph S. Nay, nay, sir, this is no 
jest. 

Charles S. Egad, I'm serious. Don't 
you remember one day when I called 
here 

Joseph S. Nay, prithee, Charles 

Charles S. And found you to- 
gether 

Joseph S. Zounds, sir! I insist 

Charles S. And another time, when 
your servant 

Joseph S. Brother, brother, a word 
with you! (Aside.) Gad, I must stop 
him. 

Charles S. Informed, I say, that 

Joseph S. Hush! I beg your pardon, 
but Sir Peter has overheard all we have 
been saying. I knew you would clear 
yourself, or I should not have consented. 

Charles S. How, Sir Peter. Where is he? 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



175 



Joseph S. Softly; there! 

[Points to the closet. 

Charles S. 0, 'fore heaven, I'll have 
him out. Sir Peter, come forth! 

[Trying to get to the closet. 

Joseph S. No, no 

Charles S. I say, Sir Peter, come into 
court — (Pulls in sir peter.) — What! 
my old guardian! What! — turn inquis- 
itor, and take evidence incog? O, fie! 
O, fie! 

Sir P. Give me your hand, Charles; 
I believe I have suspected you wrongfully 
but you mustn't be angry with Joseph — 
'twas my plan! 

Charles S. Indeed! 

Sir P. But I acquit you. I prom- 
ise you I don't think near so ill of you 
as I did: what I have heard has given me 
great satisfaction. 

Charles S. (apart to Joseph). Egad 
then, 'twas lucky you didn't hear any 
more, wasn't it, Joseph? 

Ah! you would have retorted 



Sir P. 
on him. 

Charles 

Sir P. 
well. 

Charles 



S. Ay, ay, that was a joke. 
Yes, yes, I know his honor too 



S. But you 



ht as well 
suspect him as me in this matter, for 
all that. (Apart to Joseph.) Mightn't 
he, Joseph? 

Sir P. Well, well, I believe you. 

Joseph S. (aside). Would they were 
both out of the room! 

Sir P. And in future, perhaps, we 
may not be such strangers. 



A characteristic touch. Charles's 
many creditors, referred to else- 
where in the play, are doubt- 
less responsible for his famil- 
iarity with the judicial sum- 
mons. 



Re-enter servant, and whispers to Joseph. 



176 



THE SCREEN SCENE 



Serv. Lady Sneerwell is below, and 
says she will come up. 

Joseph S. Lady Sneerwell! Gad's 
life! She must not come here! (Exit 
servant.) Gentlemen, I beg pardon; 
I must wait on you downstairs; here is a 
person come on particular business. 

Charles S. Well, you can see him in 
another room. Sir Peter and I have not 
met for a long time, and I have something 
to say to him. 

Joseph S. (aside). They must not 
be left together. I'll send Lady Sneer- 
well away, and return directly. (Apart 
to sir peter.) Sir Peter, not a word of 
the French milliner. 

Sir P. (crossing, and apart to Joseph) . 
I! not for the world! (Exit Joseph.) 
Ah! Charles, if you associated more with 
your brother, one might indeed hope for 
your reformation. He is a man of senti- 
ment. Well, there is nothing in the world 
so noble as a man of sentiment. 

Charles S. Pshaw! he is too moral by 
half, and so apprehensive of his good name 
as he calls it that he would as soon let 
a priest into his house as a wench. 

Sir P. No, no. Come, come, you 
wrong him. No, no ! Joseph is no rake, 
but he is no such saint either, in that 
respect. (Aside.) I have a great mind 
to tell him — we should have such a 
laugh at Joseph. 

Charles S. Oh, hang him! He's a 
very anchorite, a young hermit. 

Sir P. Hark'ee — you must not 
abuse him; he may chance to hear of it 
again, I promise you. 

Charles S. Why, you won't tell him? 



The arrival of Lady Sneerwell 
draws Joseph from the room, 
and affords an opportunity for 
Sir Peter to acquaint Charles 
with the concealment of the 
''French milliner." 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



177 



Sir P. No — but — this way. (Aside.) 
Egad, I'll tell him. (Aloud.) Hark'ee 
— have you a mind to have a good laugh 
at Joseph? 

Charles S. I should like it of all things. 

Sir P. Then, i'faith, we will — I'll 
be quit with him for discovering me. 
(Whispers.) He had a girl with him when 
I called. 

Charles S. What! Joseph? You jest. 

Sir P. Hush! — a little French mil- 
liner — and the best of the jest is, she's 
in the room now. 

Charles S. The devil she is! 

[Looking at closet. 

Sir P. Hush! I tell you! 

[Points to screen. 

Charles S. Behind the screen! 'Slife, 
let's unvail her. 

Sir P. No, no — he's coming; you 
shan't, indeed! 

Charles S. Oh, egad, we'll have a 
peep at the little milliner. 

Sir P. Not for the world; Joseph will 
never forgive me 

Charles S. I'll stand by you 

Sir P. Odds, here he is. (joseph 
surface enters just as charles 
sure ace throws down the screen.) 

Charles S. Lady Teazle! by all that's 
wonderful! 

Sir P. Lady Teazle — by all that's 
damnable ! 

Charles S. Sir Peter, this is one of the 
smartest French milliners I ever saw. 
Egad, you seem all to have been divert- 
ing yourselves here at hide and seek, and 
I don't see who is out of the secret. 
Shall I beg your ladyship to inform 



The irony of circumstance. Sir 
Peter's desire to "have a good 
laugh at Joseph" results in a 
laugh at his own expense. 



178 THE SCREEN SCENE 



me? Not a word! Brother, will you 
be pleased to explain this matter ? 
What! is Morality dumb too! Sir Peter, 
though I found you in the dark, perhaps 
you are not so now! All mute! Well, 
though I can make nothing of the affair, 
I suppose you perfectly understand one 
another — so I'll leave you to yourselves. 
(Going.) Brother, I'm sorry to find you 
have given that worthy man grounds for 
so much uneasiness. Sir Peter! there's 
nothing in the world so noble as a man 
of sentiment. [Exit] 

Joseph S. Sir Peter — notwithstand- 
ing — I confess — that appearances are 
against me — if you will afford me 
your patience — I make no doubt — 
but I shall explain everything to your 
satisfaction. 

Sir P. If you please, sir. 

Joseph S. The fact is, sir, that Lady 
Teazle, knowing my pretensions to your 
ward Maria — I say, sir, Lady Teazle, 
being apprehensive of the jealousy of 
your temper — and knowing my friendship 
to the family — ■ she, sir, I say, — called 
here — in order that — I might explain 
these pretensions — but on your com- 
ing — being apprehensive — as I said 
— of your jealousy — she withdrew — 
and this, you may depend on it, is the 
whole truth of the matter. 

Sir P. A very clear account, upon 
my word; and I dare swear the lady will 
vouch for every article of it. 

Lady T. (coming forward). For not 
one word of it, Sir Peter! 

Sir P. How! don't you think it worth 
while to agree in the lie! 



Note the verbal conflict. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 



179 



Lady T. There is not one syllable 
of truth in what that gentleman has told 



Sir P. I believe you, upon my soul, 
ma'am! 

Joseph S. {aside). — 'Sdeath, madam, 
will you betray me? 

Lady T. Good Mr. Hypocrite, by 
your leave, I'll speak for myself. 

Sir P. Ay, let her alone, sir; you'll 
find she'll make out a better story than 
you, without prompting. 

Lady T. Hear me, Sir Peter! I came 
hither on no matter relating to your 
ward, and even ignorant of the gentle- 
man's pretensions to her. But I came 
seduced by his insidious arguments, at 
least to listen to his pretended pas- 
sion, if not to sacrifice your honor to 
his baseness. 

Sir P. Now, I believe, the truth is 
coming, indeed. 

Josephs. The woman's mad! 

Lady T. No, sir, she has recovered 
her senses, and your own arts have fur- 
nished her with the means. Sir Peter, 
I do not expect you to credit me, 
but the tenderness you expressed for 
me, when I am sure you could not think 
I was a witness to it, has so penetrated 
to my heart that had I left the place 
without the shame of this discovery, my 
future life should have spoken the sin- 
cerity of my gratitude. As for that 
smooth-tongued hypocrite, who would 
have seduced the wife of his too credu- 
lous friend, while he affected honorable 
addresses to his ward — I behold him 
now in a light so truly despicable, that 



Note also that the essential prin- 
ciples of dramatic conflict are 
in evidence throughout the 
scene. Joseph is striving (1) 
to prevent Lady Teazle from 
learning of his intentions re- 
garding Maria, (2) to keep from 
Sir Peter the knowledge of 
Lady Teazle's presence, and 
(3) to prevent Charles from 
inadvertently revealing to Sir 
Peter his intrigue with Lady 
Teazle. 

The situation which Joseph's 
hypocritical conduct has in- 
vited is itself the means by 
which he is undone. 



180 THE SCREEN SCENE 

I shall never again respect myself for 
having listened to him. 

[Exit.] 

Joseph S. Notwithstanding all this, 
Sir Peter, Heaven knows 

Sir P. That you are a villain! and so 
I leave you to your conscience. 

Joseph S. You are too rash, Sir 
Peter; you shall hear me. The man who 
shuts out conviction by refusing to 

Sir P. O, damn your sentiments! 

[Exeunt sir peter and surface, 
talking. 

end or ACT IV, 




i3!Ro:^P5<n>r^ iett^^v^tsid 



APPENDIX II 



The Trial Scene from 
The Merchant of Venice 



APPENDIX II 

INTRODUCTORY 



The Trial Scene from The Merchant of Venice 
has been selected as illustrating the dramatic principles 
of contrast, conflict, and suspense. Schlegel has said 
of this scene that it "is in itself a perfect drama." 



THE 
TRIAL SCENE 

FROM 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

By 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



ACT IV. 

scene I. Venice. A Court of Justice. 
Enter the duke, the Magnificoes, an- 

TONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SAL- 

erio, and others. 

Duke. What, is Antonio here? 
Antonio. Ready, so please your grace. 
Duke. I am sorry for thee: thou art 
come to answer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
From any dram of mercy. 

Antonio. I have heard 

Your grace hath ta'en great pains to 

qualify 
His rigorous course; but since he stands 

obdurate 
And that no lawful means can carry 

me 
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose 

187 



The opponents in the conflict 
(plaintiff and defendant) are 
Shylock and Antonio. Note the 
description of Shylock and the 
contrast between his character 
and that of Antonio. 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



My patience to his fury, and am arm'd 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into 

the court. 
Salerio. He is ready at the door: he 
comes, my lord. 

Enter shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand 

before our face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think 

so too, 
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy 

malice 
To the last hour of act; and then 'tis 

thought 
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse 

more strange 
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; 
And where thou now exact'st the pen- 
alty, 
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's 

flesh, 
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, 
But, touch'd with human gentleness and 

love, 
Forgive a moiety of the principal; 
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 
That have of late so huddled on his 

back, 
Enow to press a royal merchant down 
And pluck commiseration of his state 
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts 

of flint, 
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never 

train'd 
To offices of tender courtesy. 
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 



Some critics are inclined to 
think that the Duke expresses 
the original intention of Shy- 
lock, who desired merely to 
humiliate Antonio by placing 
him under obligation to one 
of a race he despised, but that 
at the last moment rage made 
him insist upon the literal ful- 
fillment of Antonio's promise. 



Shylock remains obdurate, and 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

Shylock. I have possess'd your grace 
of what I purpose; 

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 

To have the due and forfeit of my bond: 

If you deny it, let the danger light 

Upon your charter and your city's free- 
dom. 

You'll ask me, why I rather choose to 
have 

A weight of carrion flesh than to receive 

Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer insists upon his technical rights. 

that: 

But, say, it is my humor: is it answer'd? 

What if my house be troubled with a 
rat 

And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand 
ducats 

To have it baned? What, are you answer'd 
yet? 

Some men there are love not a gaping 

pig; 

Some, that are mad if they behold a 

cat; 
For affection, 

Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood 
Of what it likes or loathes. Xow, for 

your answer: 
As there is no firm reason to be render'd, 
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig; 
Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; 
So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 
More than a lodg'd hate and a certain 

loathing 
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
A losing suit against him. Are you 

answer'd? 
Bassanio. This is no answer, thou 

unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 



i go 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



Shylock. I am not bound to please 

thee with my answers. 
Bassanio. Do all men kill the things 

they do not love? 
Shylock. Hates any man the thing he 

would not kill? 
Bassanio. Every offense is not a hate 

at first. 
Shylock. What, would'st thou have a 

serpent sting thee twice? 
Antonio. I pray you, think you 

question with the Jew: 
You may as well go stand upon the 

beach 
And bid the main flood bate his usual 

height; 
You may as well use question with the 

wolf 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the 

lamb; 
You may as well forbid the mountain 

pines 
To wag their high tops and to make no 

noise, 
When they are fretten with the gusts of 

heaven; 
You may as well do anything most 

hard, 
As seek to soften that — than which 

what's harder? — 
His Jewish heart : therefore, I do beseech Antonio abandons the conflict. 

you, 
Make no more offers, use no further 

means, 
But with all brief and plain conveniency 
Let me have judgment and the Jew his 

will. 

Bassanio. For thy three thousand Bassanio makes an appeal to 
, , , . . Shylock's avarice, 

ducats here is six. 




AHT-JI"STT^ "I'lIlUXvi^J^ 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 193 



Shylock. If every ducat in six thou- 
sand ducats 
Were in six parts and every part a 

ducat, 
I would not draw them; I would have my 

bond. 
Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, 

rend'ring none? 
Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, 

doing no wrong? 
You have among you many a purchas'd 

slave. 
Which, like your asses and your dog 

and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish 

parts, 
Because you bought them: shall I say 

to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your 

heirs? 
Why sweat they under burthens? let 

their beds 
Be made as soft as yours and let their 

palates 
Be season'd with such viands? You 

will answer, 
"The slaves are ours:" so do I answer 

you: 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of 

him, 
Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will 

have it. 
If you deny me, fie upon your law! 
There is no force in the decrees of 

Venice. 
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I 

have it? 
Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss 

this court, 



194 T ^E TRIAL SCENE 

Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Hope is revived and the sus- 

. . pense sustained by the refer- 

vvnom 1 nave sent tor to determine this, ence to Bellario. 

Come here to-day. 
Salerio. My lord, here stays with- 

out 
A messenger with letters from the doctor, Interest is still further increased 
N>w romp from Pnrhm h ? the announcement that the 

JNew come trom Faciua. messenger has arrived. 

Duke. Bring us the letters; call the 

messenger. 
Bassanio. Good cheer, Antonio! What, 

man, courage yet! 

The Tew shall have my flesh, blood, bones Note the contrast between Shy- 
lock s attitude and that of 
and all, Bassanio. 

Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of 
blood. 
Antonio. I am a tainted wether of the 
flock, 

Meetest for death: the weakest kind of 
fruit 

Drops earliest to the ground; and so let 
me: 

You cannot better be employ'd, Bas- 
sanio, 

Than to live still and write mine epi- 
taph. 

Enter nerissa, dressed like a lawyer's 
clerk. 

Duke. Came you from Padua, from 
Bellario? 

Nerissa. From both, my lord. Bel- 
lario greets your grace. 

[Presenting a letter. 

Bassanio. Why dost thou whet thy The whetting of the knife sug- 
knife so earnestly? gests physical conflict. 

Shylock. To cut the forfeiture from 
that bankrupt there. 

Gratiano. Not on thy sole, but on 
thy soul, harsh Jew, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 195 

Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no 

metal can, 
No, not the hangman's ax, bear half 

the keenness 
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers 

pierce thee? 
Shylock. No, none that thou hast 

wit enough to make. 
Gratiano. Oh, be thou damn'd, in- 
exorable dog ! 
And for thy life let justice be accus'd. 
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my 

faith 
To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 
That souls of animals infuse themselves 
Into the trunks of men : thy currish 

spirit 
Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human 

slaughter, 
Even from the gallows did his fell soul 

fleet, 
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhal- 

low'd dam, 
Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires 
Are wolvish, bloody, starv'd, and raven- 
ous 
Shylock. Till thou canst rail the seal 

from off my bond, 
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak 

so loud: 

Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall Shylock continues to assert that 

To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. he stands upcn his legal rights - 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth 
commend 
A young and learned doctor to our court. 
Where is he? 

Nerissa. He attendeth here hard by, 
To know your answer, whether you'll ad- 
mit hiro 



ig6 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



Duke. With all my heart. Some three 
or four of you 
Go give him courteous conduct to this 

place. 
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's 
letter. 

Clerk [Reads]. " Your grace shall un- 
derstand that at the receipt of your letter 
I am very sick: but in the instant that 
your messenger came, in loving visitation 
was with me a young doctor of Rome; his 
name is Balthasar. I acquainted him 
with the cause in controversy between the 
Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned 
o'er many books together: he is furnished 
with my opinion; which, bettered with his 
own learning, the greatness whereof I can- 
not enough commend, comes with him, 
at my importunity, to fill up your grace's 
request in my stead. I beseech you, let 
his lack of years be no impediment to let 
him lack a reverend estimation; for I never 
knew so young a body with so old a head, 
I leave him to your gracious acceptance 
whose trial shall better publish his com- 
mendation." 

Duke. You hear the learn'd Bellario, 
what he writes : 
And here, I take it, is the doctor come. 

Enter portia, dressed like a doctor 
of laws. 

Give me your hand. Came you from old 
Bellario? 
Portia. I did, my lord. 
Duke. You are welcome: take your 
place. 
Are you acquainted with the differ- 
ence 



Note the care which is taken to 
give Portia an effective en- 
trance. 



The sickness of Bellario gives 
plausibility to Portia's pres- 
ence, and the fact that she 
is "furnished" with Bellario's 
"opinion" renders her knowl- 
edge of the law more prob- 
able. 



The people in the play are not 
aware of Portia's identity, but 
there is no attempt to deceive 
the audience, who, in the na- 
ture of things, must recognize 
her at once. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 



197 



That holds this present question in the 
court? 
Portia. I am informed thoroughly of 
the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which 
the Jew? 
Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both 

stand forth. 
Portia. Is your name Shylock? 
Shylock. Shylock is my name. 

Portia. Of a strange nature is the 
suit you follow; 
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. 
You stand within his danger, do you not? 
Antonio. Ay, so he says. 
Portia. Do you confess the 

bond? 
Antonio. I do. 

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
Shylock. On what compulsion must 

I? tell me that. 

Portia. The quality of mercy is not 

strain'd, 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; 

It blesseth him that gives and him that 

takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it be- 
comes 
The throned monarch better than his 

crown; 
His scepter shows the force of temporal 

power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of 

kings; 
But mercy is above this scepter'd sway; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 



Portia immediately takes 
place in the conflict. 



her 



There is economic significance in 
the fact that Portia, whose mar- 
riage has been made possible 
by Antonio's loan, should be 
the agent by whom Antonio is 
extricated from the disastrous 
consequences resulting from his 
act of generosity. The two 
meet now for the first time in 
the high light of dramatic con- 
trast, when a life of happiness 
has been assured to one, and 
death faces the other. 



198 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



It is an attribute to God himself; 

x\nd earthly power doth then show likest 

God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, 

Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation: we do pray for 

mercy; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all 

to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus 

much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of 

Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the 

merchant there. 
Shylock. My deeds upon my head! 

I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 
Portia. Is he not able to discharge 

the money? 
Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for 

him in the court; 
Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my 

heart: 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. And I 

beseech you, 
Wrest once the law to your authority: 
To do a great right, do a little wrong, 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 
Portia. It must not be; there is no 

power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established: 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent, 



It has been said that the play 
"represents human life as a 
great law-suit, with Shylock im- 
personating revenge, and Por- 
tia mercy."' In this view of the 
situation we may regard Portia 
as testing Shylock's soul, 
and pronouncing sentence only 
when he has shown himself to 
be incapable of a single hu- 
mane impulse. 



Observe how Portia prolongs the 

suspense: 
Her plea for mercy having proved 

unavailing — 

1. She rejects Bassanio's sup 

plication. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 



199 



And many an error by the same example 
Will rush into the state: it cannot be. 
Shylock. A Daniel come to judgment 
yea, a Daniel! 
wise young judge, how I do honor 
thee! 
Portia. I pray you, let me look upon 

the bond. 
Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend doc- 
tor, here it is. 
Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy 

money offer'd thee. 
Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an 
oath in heaven: 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
Xo, not for Venice . . 

Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit; 
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merci- 
ful: 
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the 
bond. 
Shylock. When it is paid according to 
the tenor. 
It doth appear you are a worth}'- judge; 
You know the law, your exposition 
Hath been most sound: I charge you by 

the law, 
\\ 'hereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me: I stay here on my bond. 
Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech 
the court 
To give the judgment. 

Portia. Why then, thus it is: 

You must prepare your bosom for 
his knife. 



2. She examines the bond and 
declares it forfeit. 



3. She bids Antonio prepare 
for death. 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



Shylock. O noble judge! O excel- 
lent young man! 
Portia. For the intent and purpose 
of the law- 
Hath full relation to the penalty, 
Which here appeareth due upon the 
bond. 
Shylock. 'Tis very true: O wise and 
upright judge! 
How much more elder art thou than thy 
looks! 
Portia. Therefore lay bare your 

bosom. 
Shylock. Ay, his breast: 

So says the bond: doth it not, noble 

judge? 
"Nearest his heart:" those are the very 
words. 
Portia. It is so. Are there balance 
here to weigh 
The flesh? 

Shylock. I have them ready. 
Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shy- 
lock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to 
death. 
Shylock. Is it so nominated in the 

bond? 
Portia. It is not so express'd: but 
what of that? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 
Shylock. I cannot find it; 'tis not in 

the bond. 
Portia. You, merchant, have you any- 
thing to say? 
Antonio. But little: I am arm'd and 
well prepar'd. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you 
well! 



4. She calls for scales to weigh 
the flesh. 



5. She orders a surgeon to stop 
Antonio's wounds. 



The farewell speech of Antonio 
intensifies the suspense. 




•HOSSIfcMPIIII -JjEZl'-Ili'MTKfeSOIV 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 



203 



Grieve not that I am fallen to this for 

you; 
For herein Fortune shows herself more 

kind 
Than is her custom: it is still her use 
To let the wretched man outlive his 

wealth, 
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled 

brow 
An age of poverty; from which ling'ring 

penance 
Of such a misery doth she cut me off 
Commend me to your honorable wife: 
Tell her the process of Antonio's end; 
Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in 

death; 
And, when the tale is told, bid her be 

judge 
Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
Repent not you that you shall lose your 

friend, 
And he repents not that he pays your 

debt; 
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
I'll pay it presently with all my heart. 
Bassanio. Antonio, I am married to 

a wife 
Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
Are not with me esteem'd above thy life: 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
Here to this devil, to deliver you. 

Portia. Your wife would give you 

little thanks for that, 
If she were by, to hear you make the 

offer. 
Gratiano. I have a wife, whom, I 

protest, I love: 
I would she were in heaven, so she could 



This bit of humorous by-play 
inserted in the midst of a ser- 
ious situation — 
1. Exemplifies the principle of 
contrast. 



2. Makes it plain that Portia 
has no misgivings as to the 
outcome of the trial. 



204 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



Entreat some power to change this cur- 
rish Jew. 
Nerissa. 'Tis well you offer it behind 
her back; 
The wish would make else an unquiet 
house. 
Shylock [aside]. These be the Chris- 
tian husbands. I have a daughter; 
Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
Had been her husband rather than a 

Christian! 
We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sen- 
tence. 
Portia. A pound of that same mer- 
chant's flesh is thine: 
The court awards it, and the law doth 
give it. 
Shylock. Most rightful judge! 
Portia. And you must cut this flesh 
from off his breast: 
The law allows it, and the court awards 
it. 
Shylock. Most learned judge! A sen- 
tence! Come, prepare! 
Portia. Tarry a little; there is some- 
thing else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot 

of blood; 
The words expressly are "a pound of 

flesh:" 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound 

of flesh; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands 

and good:, 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gratiano. O upright judge! Mark, 
Jew: O learned judge! 



3. Emphasizes a personal rea- 
son for Shylock's hatred of 
Christians; namely, the elope- 
ment of Jessica. 



Portia ends the suspense at last, 



The tension is relieved by the 
mockery of Gratiano. 



£HE MERCHANT OF VENICE 205 



Shylock. Is that the law? 
Portia. Thyself shalt see the 

act: 
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou 
desirest. 
Gratiano. O learned judge! Mark, 

Jew: a learned judge! 
Shylock. I take his offer, then; pay 
the bond thrice 
And let the Christian go. 

Bassanio. Here is the money. 

Portia. Soft! 
The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no 

haste: 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
Gratiano. O Jew! an upright judge, 

a learned judge! 
Portia. Therefore prepare thee to 
cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less 

nor more 
But just a pound of flesh: if thou cutt'st 

more 
Or less than a just pound, be it but so 

much 
As makes it light or heavy in the sub- 
stance 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale 

do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, 
Thou diest and all thy goods are con- 
fiscate. 
Gratiano. A second Daniel, a Daniel, 
Jew! 
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. 
Portia. Why doth the Jew pause? 
take thy forfeiture. 



206 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



Shylock. Give me my principal, and 

let me go. 
Bassanio. I have it ready for thee; 

here it is. 
Portia. He hath refus'd it in the open 
court : 
He shall have merely justice and his 
bond. 
Gratiano. A Daniel, still say I, a 
second Daniel! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that 
word. 
Shylock. Shall I not have barely 

my principal? 
Portia. Thou shalt have nothing but 
the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shylock. Why, then the devil give 
him good of it! 
I'll stay no longer question. 

Portia. Tarry, Jew: 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be prov'd against an alien 
That by direct or indirect attempts 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party 'gainst the which he doth con- 
trive 
Shall seize one half his goods; the other 

half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st; 
For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 
That indirectly and directly too 
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd 
The danger formerly by me rehears'd. 



An ironical touch: Shylock has 
insisted that the letter of the 
bond must be maintained, and 
Portia now turns his own wea- 
pons against him. 



Just as the suspense was gradu- 
ally increased and sustained 
while Shylock was apparently 
victor in the contest, so now, 
when he has become van- 
quished, punishment is meted 
out to him in the same cumu- 
lative fashion. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 207 



Down therefore and beg mercy of the 

duke. 
Gratiano. Beg that thou mayst have 

leave to hang thyself : 
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the 

state, 
Thou hast not left the value of a cord; 
Therefore thou must be hang'd at the 

state's charge. 
Duke. That thou shalt see the differ- 
ence of our spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask 

it: 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's; 
The other half comes to the general 

state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a 

fine. 
Portia. Ay, for the state, not for 

Antonio. 
Shylock. Nay, take my life and all; 

pardon not that: 
You take my house when you do take 

the prop 
That doth sustain my house; you take 

my life 
When you do take the means whereby I 

live. 
Portia. What mercy can you render 

him, Antonio? 
Gratiano. A halter gratis; nothing 

else, for God's sake. 
Antonio. So please my lord the duke 

and all the court 
To quit the fine for one half of his goods, 
I am content; so he will let me have 
The other half in use, to render it, 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter: 



2o8 THE TRIAL SCENE 

Two things provided more, that, for this 

favor, 
He presently become a Christian; 
The other, that he do record a gift, 
Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd, 
Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 
Duke. He shall do this, or else I do 
recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 
Portia. Art thou contented, Jew? what 

dost thou say? 
Shylock. I am content. 
Portia. Clerk, draw a deed of 

gift. 
Shylock. I pray you, give me leave 

to go from hence; utter rout 

I am not well: send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. 

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 
Gratiano. In christ'ning shalt thou 
have two godfathers: 
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have 

had ten more, 
To bring thee to the gallows, not the 
font. [Exit Shylock. 

Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me 

to dinner. 
Portia. I humbly do desire your grace 
of pardon: 
I must away this night toward Padua, 
And it is meet I presently set forth. 
Duke. I am sorry that your leisure 
serves you not. 
Antonio, gratify this gentleman, 
For, in my mind, you are much bound 
to him. 

[Exeunt duke and his train. 
Bassanio. Most worthy gentleman, 
I and my friend 



The conflict ends with Shylock' 



THE MERCHANT OF VEX ICE 



209 



Have by your wisdom been this day 

acquitted 
Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof, 
Three thousand ducats, due unto the 

Jew. 
We freely cope your courteous pains 

withal. 
Antonio. And stand indebted, over 

and above. 
In love and service to you evermore. 
Portia. He is well paid that is well 

satisfied; 
And I, delivering you, am satisfied 
And therein do account myself well paid: 
My mind was never yet more mercenary. 
I pray you, know me when we meet again: 
I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 
Bassanio. Dear sir, of force I must 

attempt you further : 
Take some remembrance of us. as a trib- 
ute. 
Xot as a fee: grant me two things, I pray 

you. 
Xot to deny me, and to pardon me. 
Portia. You press me far, and there- 
fore I will yield. 
[To Antonio] Give me your gloves, I'll 

wear them for your sake; 
[To Bassanio] And, for your love, I 

take this ring from you: 
Do not draw back your hand; I'll take 

no more; 
And you in love shall not deny me this. 
Bassanio. This ring, good sir, alas. 

it is a trifle! 
I will not shame myself to give you this. 
Portia. I will have nothing else but 

only this; 
And now methinks I have a mind to it. 



The beginning of a new suspense. 
When and how will Bassanio 
learn who the "young doctor 
of Rome" really is. 



THE TRIAL SCENE 



Bassanio. There's more depends on 
this than on the value. 
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 
And find it out by proclamation: 
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. 
Portia. I see, sir, you are liberal in 
offers : 
You taught me first to beg: and now 

methinks 
You teach me how a beggar should be 
answer'd. 
Bassanio. Good sir, this ring was 
given me by my wife; 
And when she put it on, she made me vow 
That I should neither sell nor give nor 
lose it. 
Portia. That 'scuse serves many men 
to save their gifts. 
And if your wife be not a mad- woman, 
Andknowhow welll havedeserv'd thering, 
She would not hold out enemy forever, 
For giving it to me. Well, peace be 
with you ! 

[Exeunt portia and nerissa. 
Antonio. My Lord Bassanio, let him 
have the ring: 
Let his deservings and my love withal 
Be valued 'gainst your wife's command- 
ment. 
Bassanio. Go, Gratiano, run and over- 
take him; 
Give him the ring, and bring him, if 

thou canst, 
Unto Antonio's house: away! make haste. 

[Exit GRATIANO. 

Come, you and I will thither presently; 
And in the morning early will we both 
Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio. 

[Exeunt. 



The dramatic strain is relaxed by 
the introduction of the episode 
of the ring, which later plays 
its role in revealing the identity 
of Portia and Nerissa. 




iilKOIKtliJK ilBIKireZ^^a^I) JSIEI^VW 



APPENDIX III 



Albert Smith's Dramatization of 
The Cricket on the Hearth 



APPENDIX III 

INTRODUCTORY 

We have elsewhere noted that rules of construction 
are but the means to an end. It follows, therefore, 
that a transgression of even the most rigidly prescribed 
laws is justifiable if a higher end is attained thereby. 
Thus, in Albert Smith's dramatization of Dickens's 
The Cricket on the Hearth, the rule that the audience 
must always share the dramatic secret is violated in 
order that complete sympathy may be accorded John 
Perrybingle. 

The play is here printed in full. 



21$ 



THE 

CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 
A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 

Dramatized by 
ALBERT SMITH, ESQ. 

CHARACTERS. 

John Perrybingle, a carrier. 

Mr. Tackleton, a toy maker. 

Caleb Plummer, his man. 

Old Gentleman. 

Porter. 

Dot's Father. 

Dot. 

Bertha, a blind girl. 

Mrs. Fielding. 

May Fielding. 

Tilly Slowboy. 

Mrs. Dot. 

ACT I. 

Scene. — The interior of john perry- 
bingle's Cottage. A fire alight 
in the grate, on which is the kettle, 
practicable spout, to steam. Table 
and tea-things. Chairs by the fire. 
Cradle. Door L. Window with cur- 
tain furniture. At the rising of the 
curtain, music; tilly slowboy 
is sitting down on a low stool, nur- 
sing the baby, dot is busy about. 
217 



218 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

Dot. There! there's the ham — and 
there's the tea — and there's the bread! 
Now all is comfortable against John 
comes home. Dear me! if it had been 
for anybody else, how tired I should have 
been! and cross, too! oh! very cross! I'm 
sure there was enough to make me so. 
First, when I went to fill the kettle, I 
lost my pattens, and splashed my legs — 
that's hard to bear when one rather 
plumes one's self upon one's legs, and 
keeps one's self particularly neat in point 
of stockings. Then the lid of the kettle 
first turned itself topsy-turvy, and then 
dived sideways in, right down to the very 
bottom, and was as difficult to get up 
as if it had been the wreck of the Royal 
George! But now everything's right, 
and I can sit down for a minute in com- 
fort and cheerfulness. 

{Music. She sits down at the fireside. Note the naturalness of the 
v J cricket s chirp and the arti- 

The chirp of the cricket is heard — fkiality of the music. 

the kettle steams.) 
Ah! there's the cricket on the hearth 
again. I thought it wouldn't be quiet 
long when the kettle began to sing. How 
its voice sounds through the house, and 
seems to twinkle in the outer darkness 
like a star. Why, I declare its racing 
with the kettle — trying to get before 
it ! It can't, though; no, no — the kettle's 
not to be finished like that! How I 
love its fireside song of comfort; and 
John loves it, too. He says it always 
seems to say, "Welcome home, old 
fellow; welcome home, old boy!" He's 
very late to-night. Hush ! I hear him. 
Yes. I'm sure it is. (Rises.) Give me 
baby, Tilly; I know it is John coming home ! 



THE CRICKET OX THE HEARTH 219 



(Music. She takes the baby from tilly, 
and going to the door, opens it. 
Part of the cart is seen, with a lantern 

— johx comes in, stamping with cold 

— snow on him — he shakes his hat.) 
Oh! goodness, John what a state you're 

in, with the weather. 

(Assists him to undress.) 

John. Why, you see, Dot, it — it 
ain't exactly summer weather, so no 
wonder. (Puts down parcels.) 

Dot. I wish you wouldn't call me, 
Dot, John — I don't like it. 

John (drawing her to him). Why, little 
woman, what else are you? A dot, and 

— (looks at baby) — a dot, and carry — 
no, I won't make a joke. I should only 
spoil it; I don't know that I was ever 
nearer one though? 

Dot. You don't notice baby, John 

— ain't he beautiful? Now don't he 
look precious in his sleep? 

John. Very! He generally is asleep 

— ain't he? 

Dot. Lor! John! — good gracious — no! 

John. Oh! I thought his eyes were 
generally shut. Holloa! 

(Shouts in baby's ear.) 

Dot. Goodness, John! how you startle 
one! 

John. It ain't right for him to turn 
'em up, in that way, is it? See how he's 
winking with 'em both at once? And 
look at his mouth! Why, he's gasping 
like a gold and silver fish ! 

Dot (with dignity). You don't deserve 
to be a father — you don't; but how 
should you know what little complaints 
babies are troubled with, John? 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



John. No — it's very true, Dot. I 
don't know much about it — I only 
know the wind's been blowing northeast, 
straight into the cart the whole way 
home. (Beginning to take of his coat.) 

Dot. Poor old man! so it has. Here, 
take the precious darling, Tilly, while I 
make myself of some use. Bless it, I 
could smother it with kissing it, I could! 
Now see me bustle about, John, like a 
busy bee — "How doth the little" — 
and all the rest of it, you know, John. 
Did you ever learn "How doth the little" 
when you went to school, John? 

John. Not quite to know it. I was 
very near it, once; but I should only 
have spoiled it, I dare say. 

Dot (laughs). Ha! ha! what a dear 
old dunce you are, John, to be sure! 
Here, Tilly, take baby — and don't let 
him fall under the grate, whatever you 
do! (At table.) There! there's the tea- 
pot ready on the hob — and the cold 
knuckle of ham — and the crusty loaf — 
and there's the cricket! 

John (having hung up his coat). Hey- 
day! it's merrier than ever to-night, I 
think. (Goes to table.) 

Dot. And it's sure to bring us good 
fortune, John! 

John. It always has done so. To 
have a cricket on the hearth is the luck- 
iest thing in all the world. 

Dot (sits by his side and takes his hand). 
The first time I heard its cheerful little 
note, John, was on that night when you 
brought me to my new home here, as 
its little mistress, nearly a year ago. You 
recollect, John? 



The portrayal of John as a "dear 
old dunce" makes his later 
misunderstanding more prob- 
able, and appeals at once to 
the sympathy of the audience. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 221 

John. I should think so, Dot. 

Dot. Its chirp was such a welcome 
to me! It seemed so full of promise and 
encouragement. It seemed to say you 
would be kind and gentle with me, and 
would not expect — I had a fear of that, 
John, then — to find an old head on the 
shoulders of your foolish little wife. 

John (patting her). No, no — I was 
quite content to take them as they were. 

Dot. It spoke the truth, John, when 
it seemed to say so — for you have ever 
been, I am sure, the best, the most con- 
siderate, the most affectionate of hus- 
bands to me. This has been a happy 
home, John, and I love the cricket for its 
sake! 

John. Why, so do I, then — so do I, 
Dot! 

Dot. I love it for the many times I 
have heard it, and the many thoughts its 
harmless music has given me. Some- 
times, in the twilight, when I have felt a 
little solitary and down-hearted, John, 
before baby was here to keep me com- 
pany, and make the house gay, when I 
have thought how lonely you would be if 
I should die, how lonely I should be if I 
could know that you had lost me, dear, 
its chirp, chirp, chirp upon the hearth 
has seemed to tell me of another little 
voice, so sweet, so very dear to me, before 
whose coming sound my trouble vanished 

like a dream. And when I used to fear This {car of Dot , s gives plausl . 
— I did fear once, John, I was very young, bri*y to John's later suspic- 

you know — that ours might be an ill- 
assorted marriage; I being such a child 
and you more like my guardian than my 
husband; and that you might not, however 



ions. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



hard you tried, be able to learn to love me 
as you hoped and prayed you might — 
its chirp, chirp, chirp has cheered me 
up again, and filled me with new trust 
and confidence. I was thinking of these 
things to-night, dear, when I sat expect- 
ing you; and I love the cricket for their 
sake. 

John. And so do I! But, Dot! / 
hope and pray that I might learn to love 
you? How you talk! I had learnt 
that long before I brought you here to 
be the cricket's little mistress, Dot. 
{Kisses her, then she rises.) 

Dot. There are not many parcels 
to-night, John. (Goes to those he has 
put down.) Why, what's this round box? 
Heart alive, John, it's a wedding cake. 

John. Leave a woman alone to find 
out that ! Now, a man would never have 
thought of it; whereas, it's my belief 
that if you was to pack a wedding cake 
up in a tea chest, or a turn-up bedstead, 
or a pickled salmon keg, or any unlikely 
thing, a woman would be sure to find it 
out directly. Yes, I called for it at the 
pastry cook's. 

Dot (reading) . Why, John — good 
gracious, John! you never mean to 
say its Gruff & Tackleton, the toy 
makers ! 

Til. (is dancing the baby). Was it 
Gruff & Tackleton's, the toy makers, 
then? and would it call at pastry cooks 
for wedding cakes — and did its mothers 
know the boxes, when its fathers brought 
them homes. Ketcher! ketcher! ketcher! 

Dot (still looking at the parcel). And 
so, it's really come about! Why, she 




rh'hakd 2>r,^rvs^i<-ii>:j.jj 



THE CRICKET OX THE HEARTH 225 



and I were girls at school together, John 
— and he's as old — as unlike her. How 
many years older is Gruff & Tackelton, 
John? 

John (at the table). How many more 
cups of tea shall I drink to-night in one 
sitting than Gruff & Tackleton ever took 
in four, I wonder? Ah! as to eating, 
I eat but little; but that little I enjoy, Dot. 
Why, Dot! (Raps with the knife on table). 
Dot! 

(dot has remained plunged in thought 
since she last spoke. She starts at the 
noise.) 

Dot. Lor' bless me, John! I beg your 
pardon, I was thinking. Ah! so these 
are all the parcels, are the)*, John? 

John. That's all — why — no — I — 
(Lays down knife and fork.) — I declare — 
I've clean forgotten the old gentleman! 

Dot. The old gentleman? 

John. In the cart. He was asleep 
amongst the straw the last time I saw 
him. I've very nearly remembered him 
twice since I came in, but he went out 
of my head again. Halloo! yahip there! 
(Goes out of the door.) Rouse up there ! — 
that's my heart) - ! 

(Music — tilly looks alarmed, as she 
hears the words, "the old gentleman," 
and crossing to dot runs against the 
stranger, with baby's head, as he 
enters, introduced by johx. The 
stranger removes his hat, and re- 
mains bareheaded in the centre of the 
room.) 

John. You are such an undeniable 



226 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

good sleeper, sir, that I had a mind to 
ask you where the other six are, only 
that would be a joke and I know I should 
spoil it. Ha! ha! very near, though, 
very near! 

(Music — The stranger looks around him, 

j , , j , Note the mysteriousness of the 

and bows to john and dot gravely, Stranger. 

then, striking a club he carries on 

the stage it falls asunder, and forms 

a species of camp-stool — he sits 

down on it.) 

John. There! that's the way I found 
him, sitting by the roadside. Upright 
as a millstone, and almost as deaf. 

Dot. Sitting in the open air, John? 

John. In the open air, just at dusk. 
" Carriage paid," he said! and gave me 
eighteen pence. Then he got in; and 
there he is ! 

Stra. If you please, I was to be left 
till called for. Don't mind me. 

(He puts on a pair of large spectacles, 
takes a book from his pocket, and 
begins to read, john and dot look 
at him with astonishment.) 

(To john, nodding his head toward dot.) 
Your daughter, my good friend? 

John. Wife! 

Stra. Niece ! 

John (loud). Wife! 

Stra. Indeed; surely — very young! 
(Reads for an instant, then resumes.) 
Baby yours? (john and dot nod eagerly.) 
Girl? 

John (bawling). B — o — y! 

Stra. Also very young — eh? 

Dot (bawls in stranger's ear). Two 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 227 



months and three days! — vaccinated 
just six weeks ago! Took very finely — 
considered by the doctor a remarkably 
fine child — equal to the general run of 
children at five months old — takes notice 
in a way quite wonderful — may seem 
impossible to you, but feels his legs al- 
ready! (.4 knocking at the door.) 

John. Hark! he's called for, sure 
enough! There's somebody at the door 
— open it, Tilly. 

{Music — tilly goes to the door, opens it, 
and lets in cAleb in his sackcloth coat.) 

Cat. Good evening, John! good even- 
ing, mum! good evening, Tilly — good 
evening, unbeknown! How's baby, mum? 
Boxer's pretty well, I hope? 

Dot. All thriving, Caleb! I am sure 
you need only to look at the dear child, 
for one to know that. 

Cat. And I'm sure I need only look 
at you, for another — or at John, for 
another — or at Tilly, as far as that 
goes. 

John. Busy just now, Caleb? 

Cal. Why, pretty well, John — this 
is a good time of year for the toy business. 
There's rather a run upon Noah's arks, 
just at present. I wish I could improve 
Noah's family — but I don't see how it's 
to be done at the price. It would be 
satisfaction to one's mind to make it 
clearer which was Shems and Hams, and 
which was wives. Flies ain't on that 
scale neither, as compared with the ele- 
phant, you know. Ah, well ! have you got 
anything in the parcel line for me, 
John? 



228 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



(john goes to L. and searches his coat 
pocket, and brings out a little plant 
in a flower-pot, packed up.) 



John. There it is! not so much as a 
leaf damaged — full of buds! It was 
very dear, though, Caleb, at this season. 

Cal. Never mind that; it would be 
cheap to me whatever it cost. Any- 
thing else, John? 

John. A small box — here you are! 
(Gives box.) 

Cal. (spelling). "For Caleb Plum- 
mer, with cash." With cash, John? 
I don't think it's for me. 

John. With care. Where do you make 
out "cash?" 

Cal. Oh! to be sure. It's all right — 
"With care?" Yes, yes, that's mine. 
Ah! if my dear boy in the golden South 
Americas had lived, John, it might have 
been cash indeed! You loved him like a 
son, didn't you? You needn't say you 
did — I know, of course. (Reads.) 
"Caleb Plummer, with care." Yes, yes; 
for my poor blind daughter's work — 
it's a box of doll's eyes. I wish it was 
her own sight in a box, John. 

John. I wish it was, or could be. 

Cal. Thank'ee, you speak very hearty. 
To think she should never see the dolls, 
and them a staring at her bold all day 
long. That's where it cuts. What's 
the damage, John? 

John. I'll damage you, if you inquire. 
Dot, nearly a joke; very near, wasn't it? 
Stop, Caleb — here's something for your 
governor, old Gruff & Tackleton. 
Cal. He hasn't been here, has he? 



Anticipation; but very guarded, 
since the identity of the Stran- 
ger is not to be revealed to the 
audience till the denouement. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 229 



John. Not he, he's too busy, court- 
ing. 

Cal. He's coming round though — he 
told me so. He isn't a pleasant man, 
is he, John? though he does sell toys. 
Ton my honor I think he only likes to 
sell those that make children uncomfort- 
able. He makes all the grim faces to the 
brown paper farmers who drive the pigs. 
And if you knew how he reveled in those 
hideous, hairy, red-eyed jacks in boxes. 
Oh! he loves them. I think I'd better 
go. By the bye, you couldn't have the 
goodness to let me pinch Boxer's tail, 
mum, for half a moment, could you? 

Dot. Why, Caleb, what a question. 

Cal. Oh! never mind, mum; he 
mightn't like it, perhaps. There's a small 
order just come in for barking dogs, and 
I should wish to go as close to nature as 
I could for sixpence. That's all, never 
mind, mum; good-bye! 

(He puts the box on his shoulder, and is 
going out, when he is met by tackle- 
ton on the threshold.) 

Tac. (entering). Oh! here you are, 
are you? Wait a bit; I'll take you home. 
John Perrybingle, my service to you; 
more of my service to your pretty wife. 
Handsomer every day! Better, too, if 
possible. (Aside.) And younger, there's 
the devil of it. 

Dot. I should be astonished at your 
paying compliments, Air. Tackleton, but 
for your condition. 

Tac. Oh ! you know all about it, then? 

Dot. I have got myself to believe it 
somehow. 



230 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



Tac. After a very hard struggle, I sup- 
pose. 

Dot. Very. 

Tac. In three days' time; next Thurs- 
day, that's to be my wedding-day. 

John. Why, it's our wedding-day, too. 

Tac. Ha! ha! Odd! You're just such 
another couple, just! 

Dot {half aside). What next? He'll 
say just another such baby, perhaps. The 
man's mad. 

Tac. (to john). I say, a word with 
you. You'll come to the wedding — 
we're in the same boat, you know. 

John. How in the same boat? 

Tac. (nudging him). A little dis- 
parity, you know. Come and spend an 
evening with us, beforehand. 

John. Why? 

Tac. Why? That's a new way of 
receiving an invitation! Why, for pleas- 
ure, sociability, you know, and all that. 

John. I thought you were never soci- 
able. 

Tac. Tchah! It's of no use to be 
anything but free with you, I see. 
Why, then the truth is, you have a — 
what the tea-drinking people call a — a 
sort of comfortable appearance together, 
you and your wife. We know better, 
you know better, but 



J oh 



don't know better. 



What are you talking about? 

Tac. Well, we don't know better, then; 
as you like; what does it matter? I was 
going to say, as you have a sort of an 
appearance, your company will produce 
a favorable effect on Mrs. Tackleton 
that will be. 



Contrast between the marriage 
of John and Dot and the in- 
tended marriage of Tackleton 
and May. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 231 



John. We've made a promise to our- 
selves, these six months, to keep our 
wedding-da)' at home. We think you 
see that home. 

Tac. Bah! what's home? {Cricket 
is heard.) Four walls, and a ceiling! 
Why don't you kill that cricket ! I would; 
I always do! I hate their noise. 

John. You kill your crickets, eh? 

Tac. Scrunch 'em, sir. You'll say 
you'll come! because you know what- 
ever one woman says, another woman is 
determined to clinch always. There's 
that spirit of emulation among 'em, sir, 
that if your wife says to my wife, "I'm 
the happiest woman in the world, and 
mine's the best husband in the world, and 
I dote on him! " my wife will say the same 
to yours, or more; and half believe it. 

John. Do you mean to say she don't, 
then? 

Tac. Don't Ha! ha — don't what? 

John. Pshaw! that she don't believe 
it! 

Tac. You're joking. I have the 
humor, sir, to marry a young wife, and a 
pretty wife — I am able to gratify that 
humor, and I do — it's my whim. But 
now, look there! {Points to dot, who is 
sitting at the fire.) She honors and obeys, 
no doubt, you know; and that, as I am 
not a man of sentiment, is quite enough 
for me. But do you think there's any- 
thing more in it? 

John. I think I should chuck any man 
out of window who said there wasn't. 

Tac. Exactly so. We're exactly alike 
in reality, I see. Good-night! You 
won't give us to-morrow evening? Well, 



232 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



next day you go visiting, I know. I'll 

meet you there, and bring my wife that 

is to be. It'll do you good. Good night ! 

(.4.? he is going, dot gives a loud shriek, 

starts up from her seat, and remains 

transfixed with terror and surprise. 

Picture. Music.) 

John. Dot! Mary, darling! what's 

the matter? Are you ill? {He supports 

her.) What is it? Tell me, dear. 

(stranger rises, and stands.) 

(dot jails into a fit of hysterical laughter, 
clasps her hands together and sinks 
upon the ground.) 

What is this, Mary? my own little 
wife — speak to me ! 

Dot (recovering). I'm better, John — 
I'm quite well — now — I — a kind of 
shock — something came suddenly be- 
fore my eyes — I don't know what it 
was — it's quite gone — quite gone. 

Tac. I'm glad it's gone! — I wonder 
where it's gone, and what it was? Humph! 
Caleb, come here — who's that, with the 
gray hair? (Points to stranger.) 

Cat. I don't know, sir. Never seen 
him before, in all my life. A beautiful 
figure for a nut-cracker — quite a new 
model — with a screw jaw opening down 
into his waistcoat, he'd be lovely! 

Tac. Not ugly enough. 

Cal. Or for a firebox, either — what a 
model ! Unscrew his head, to put the 
matches in — turn him heels upward for 
a light — and what a fire-box for a gentle- 
man's mantel-piece, just as he stands! 

Tac. Not half ugly enough! Come, 
bring that box — all right now, I hope ! 



The mystery increases. It is 
evident that Dot's agitation is 
due to the presence of the 
Stranger, but no hint is given 
the audience as to who the 
Stranger is, or what brings 
him to Dot's home. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



*33 



Dot (hurriedly). Oh! quite gone — 
quite gone! — Good night! 

Tac. Good night ! — Good night, John 
Perrybingle! 

John. Stop! — this good gentleman 
may be glad of company — I must give 
him a hint to go! 

Stra. (rises and advances toward john) . 
I beg your pardon, friend — the more so, 
as I fear your wife has not been well — 
but the attendant whom my infirmity 
(points to his ears) renders almost indis- 
pensable not having arrived, I fear there 
must be some mistake. The bad night is 
still as bad as ever. Would you, in your 
kindness, suffer me to rent a bed here? 

Dot (eagerly). Yes, yes, certainly. 

John. Oh! well, I don't object; but 
still, I'm not quite sure that 

Dot. Hush, dear John! 

Tac. Hush! why, he's stone deaf! — 
Odd! (to john) isn't it? 

Dot. I know he is, but — yes, sir 
— certainly — there's the spare room, 
and the bed ready made up ! 

Tac. Well, now I'm off! Good night, 
John — good night, Mrs. Perrybingle! 
Take care, Caleb; let that box fall, and 
I'll murder you! 

Dot (to stranger). This way, sir — 
this is your room! 

(She takes a candle, and beckons the 
stranger to an apartment at the 
side, tackleton, who is going, 
preceded by caleb, turns back, and 
laying his hand on John's shoulder, 
points toward his wife and the 
stranger. The curtain falls to the 
music of the commencement.) 



Dot's eagerness to have the 
Stranger remain indicates her 
knowledge of his identity, and 
the fact that she conceals that 
knowledge from John naturally 
creates sympathy for him in 
the minds of the audience. 
For the playwright to reveal to 
the audience the secret which 
Dot has discovered would be 
to risk losing that sympathy 
which is absolutely essential in 
order to sustain interest in the 
acts that follow. 



234 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



ACT II. 



Scene. — The abode of caleb plummer — 
a poor, half-tumbling down interior. 
A dresser on which some common, 
broken crockery is placed. The 
room is filled with toys of all de- 
scriptions, especially dolls' houses 
and dolls. There are movable 
sand toys, and musical carts, 
fiddles, drums, weapons, Noah's 
arks, horses, etc., etc. Caleb's 
coat hung up. As the curtain rises 
caleb is discovered making a baby 
house. He sings: 



"The glasses sparkle on the board, 
The wine is ruby bright," etc., etc. 



Ah! me, my voice seems to get fainter 
and fainter every day. I'm often afraid 
that my poor blind child will perceive it, 
and then I shall not be able to make her 
believe that I am still young and lively by 
my songs. Poor Bertha ! yet I often think 
her blindness may be a blessing. She 
never knew that the walls are blotched, 
and bare of plaster, or that the iron 
is rusting, the wood rotting, and the 
paper peeling off. If my poor boy had 
lived to come back from the golden South 
Americas, how different it would have 
been. She knows not now that Tackleton 
is a cold and exacting master. Poor 
girl, I have made her believe by a little 
affectionate artifice that all his harsh and 
unfeeling reproofs are meant in joke 
to enliven us — and she thinks he is our 
guardian angel, and she imagines her 



This secret the audience shares. 



Anticipation, but still very guard- 
ed. 




Bi>.%^~2J:> 13KI,A^«^J 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 237 



poor old father to be a man still young 
and handsome. Hush! Caleb, she is 
here! 

(Music — The door opens — caleb rises 
and goes toward it. bertha enters 
and feels her way to the spot where 
he was sitting. He takes her hand.) 

Cat. Bertha. 

Ber. Father. So you were out in 
the rain last night in your beautiful new 
great coat. 

Cal. {looking at his coat and shrugging 
his shoulders). In my beautiful new 
great coat. 

Ber. How glad I am you bought it, 
father. 

Cal. And of such a fashionable tailor, 
too, it's too good for me. 

Ber. Too good for you, father; what 
can be too good for you? 

Cal. I'm half ashamed to wear it, 
though, upon my word. When I hear 
the boys and people behind me say, 
"Holloa! here's a swell!" I don't know 
which way to look. And when the beggar 
wouldn't go away last night, and when I 
said I was a very common man, said, 
"No, your honor; bless your honor, don't 
say that," I was quite ashamed. I really 
felt as if I hadn't a right to wear it. 

Ber. (clapping her hands with delight). 
1 see you, father, as plainly as if I had 
the eyes I never want when you are with 
me. A blue coat. 

Cal. Bright blue. 

Ber. Yes, yes; bright blue! the color 
I can just remember in the blessed sky. 
A bright blue coat. 



238 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

Cal. Made loose to the figure. 

Ber. Yes, loose to the figure — 
{laughing) — and in it you, dear father, 
with your merry eye, your smiling face, 
your free step, and your dark hair, 
looking so young and handsome 

Cal. Halloa! — halloa! I shall be 
vain, presently. 

Ber. Not at all, dear father, not at 
all. But I am idling; I can talk just as 
well whilst I am at work. 

(Feels about for her basket, finds it, 
and begins to dress some dolls.) 

Cal. (taking up the dolls' house). There 
we are, as near the real thing as sixpenn- 
'orth of halfpence is to sixpence. What 
a pity that the whole front of the house 
opens at once. If there was only a stair- 
case in it, now, and regular doors to the 
rooms to go in at — but that's the worst 
of my calling. I'm always deluding my- 
self and swindling myself. 

(In a low tone.) 

Ber. You are speaking quite softly; 
you are not tired, father? 

Cal. Tired! What could tire me, 
Bertha? I was never tired. What does 
it mean? (Sings with forced energy.) 

"We'll drown it in a bowl! 
We'll drown it in a bowl," etc., etc. 

(As he is singing tackleton enters.) 

Tac. What, you're singing, are you? 
Go it — / can't sing — I can't afford 
it — I'm glad you can. I hope you can 
afford to work, too. Hardly time for 
both, I should think. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



239 



Cal. (to bertha). If you could only 
see him, Bertha, how he's winking at me. 
Such a man to joke. You'd think, if 
you didn't know him, he was in earnest; 
wouldn't you, now? 

(bertha nods assent.) 

Tac. The bird that can sing, and won't 
sing, must be made to sing, they say. 
What about the owl that can't sing, and 
oughtn't to sing, and will sing — is 
there anything that he should be made 
to do? 

Cal. (aside to bertha). The extent 
to which he's winking at this moment! 
Oh! my gracious! 

Ber. Always merry and light-hearted 
with us, Mr. Tackleton. 

Tac. Oh — there you are, are you? 
Poor idiot ! — Umph ! — well — and being 
there, how are you? 

Ber. Oh! well — quite well; as happy 
as ever you can wish me to be; as happy 
as you would make the whole world if 
you could. (Rising.) 

Tac. Poor idiot! no gleam of reason; 
not a gleam. 

(bertha, who does not hear him, takes 
tackleton's hand and presses it to 
her lips.) 

What's the matter now? 

Ber. I stood the little plant you sent 
me close beside my pillow when I went 
to sleep last night, and remembered it 
in my dreams; and when the day broke 
and the glorious red sun — father — the 
red sun 

Cal. Red in the mornings and evenings 
Bertha. (Aside.) Poor thing! I must 



Note the contrast between Tackle- 
ton's real character and Bertha's 
conception of him. 



240 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

deceive her still, to make her believe he 
is less harsh and cold. 

Ber. When the sun rose, and the 
bright light — I almost fear to strike 
myself against it in walking — came into 
the room, I turned the little plant toward 
it, and blessed Heaven for making things 
so precious, and blessed you for sending 
them to cheer me. 

Tac. {aside). Bedlam broke loose! 
We shall arrive at the straight waistcoat 
and mufflers soon ; we're getting on. Ugh ! 
Bertha, come here. Shall I tell you a 
secret? 

Ber. If you will. 

Tac. This is the day on which little 
What's her-name — the spoiled child — 
Perrybingle's wife pays her regular visit 
to you — makes her fantastic picnic here 
— isn't it? 

Ber. Yes; this is the day. 

Tac. I thought so; I should like to 
join the party. 

Ber . {gladly) . Do you hear that, father? 

Cal. Yes, yes, I hear it, but I don't 
believe it. It's one of my lies, no 
doubt. 

Tac. You see, I want to bring the 
Perrybingles a little more into company 
with May Fielding. I am going to be 
married to May. 

Ber. Married ! 

Tac. {muttering). She's such a con- 
founded idiot that I was afraid she'd 
never comprehend me. {Aloud.) Yes; 
married! — church, parson, clerk, beadle, 
glass coach, bells, breakfast, bridecake, 
favors, marrowbones, cleavers, and all 
the rest of the tomfoolery. A wedding, 



THE CRICKET OX THE HEARTH 241 



you know; a wedding! Don't you know 
what a wedding is? 

Ber. I know; I understand. 

Tac. Do you? It's more than 1 ex- 
pected. Well, I want to join the party, 
and to bring May and her mother. I'll 
send in a little something or other be- 
fore the afternoon; a cold leg of mutton, 
or some comfortable trifle of that sort. 
You'll expect me. 

Ber. Yes. (Turns away, and her 
head droops.) 

Tac. I don't think you will, for you 
seem to have forgotten all about it 
already. Caleb! 

Cal. (to himself). I may venture to 
say I'm here, I suppose. (Aloud.) Sir! 

Tac. Take care she don't forget what 
I've been saying to her. 

Cal. She never forgets. It's one of 
the few things she ain't clever in. 

Tac. Every man thinks his own geese 
swans. Well, good-bye! — umph! — 
poor devil! (Exit.) 

Cal. (to himself, taking up a toy 
wagon and horses, which he proceeds to 
put harness on). Phew! I'm glad he's 
gone. (Sings.) "The glasses sparkle," 
etc. 

Ber. (puis her haiid on his shoulder). 
Father, I am lonely in the dark; I want 
my eyes — my patient, willing eyes. 

Cal. Here they are; always. They 
are more yours than mine, Bertha. What 
shall your eyes do for you, dear? 

Ber. Look round the room, father. 

Cal. All right; no sooner said than 
done, Bertha. 

Ber. Tell me about it. 



Observe the result of Caleb's de- 
ception. 



242 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

Cat. It's much the same as usual; Compare Caleb's description with 

the description of the stage set- 
homely, but very snug. The gay colors ting at the beginning of Act II. 

on the walls — the bright flowers on the 

plates and dishes — the shining wood, 

where there are beams and panels — the 

general cheerfulness and neatness of the 

building make it very pretty. 

Ber. You have your working dress on 

— and are not so gallant as when you 
wear the handsome coat! 

(Touches him.) 

Cat. Not quite so gallant. Pretty 
brisk, though ! 

Ber. (putting her hand around his 
neck). Father, tell me something about 
May — she is very beautiful? 

Cal. She is, indeed. 

Ber. Her hair is dark — darker than 
mine. Her voice is sweet and musical, 
I know. I have often loved to hear it. 
Her shape 

Cal. There's not a doll's in all the 
room to equal it; and her eyes. 

Ber. (sadly). Her eyes, father 

(Hides her face, and head sinks on his arm.) 

Cal. (aside). Fool that I was! (Sings.) 
' ' We'll drown it in a bowl ! " 

Ber. But Mr. Tackleton — our kind, 
noble friend, father — he's older than 
May? 

Cal. (hesitating) . Y-e-e-es — he's a little 
older, but that don't signify 

Ber. Oh! father, yes!| To be his 
patient companion in infirmity and age 

— to be his gentle nurse in sickness, and 
his constant friend in suffering and sorrow 

— to sit beside his bed, and talk to him 
awake, and pray for him asleep ! Would 
she do all this, dear father? 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



243 



Cal. No doubt of it! 

Ber> I love her, father; I can love 
her from my soul. 

(Clings to him and is affected.) 

Cal Come, Bertha — cheerily! cheer- 
ily! I declare, all the dolls are staring 
at us as if they were mad with hunger, to 
remind us that our company will be here 
soon. Come, Bertha — let us go and 
see about the potatoes in that handsome 
wooden bowl that is so beautiful to look 
at — come, come! 

(Music — They exeunt at R. The tune 
changes to u Gee ho, Dobbin!''' and 
the door opens. Enter mrs. perry- 
bingle, carrying all sorts of parcels, 
followed by john, doing the same — 
and lastly, tilly carrying the baby.) 

Dot. Nobody here to receive us — 
and nobody come yet! Never mind; 
we're not proud, John, are we? 

(Undoing bonnet, etc.) 

John. Well, I don't know, Dot; I'm 
proud of you when you're admired, 
knowing that you don't mind it. 

(Pulling of great coal.) 

Dot. Now, John 

John. In fact, that you rather like 
it, perhaps. 

Dot. Now, hush, John ! I'm sure I'm 
only proud of our cart; and who wouldn't 
be? and Boxer. 

John. And just getting into the cart 
— the legs, Dot, eh? 

Dot. Now, John, how can you! 
Think of Tilly. And are you sure you've 
got the basket with the veal, and ham 
pie, and things — and the bottles of 



In the case of Caleb's deception 
the sympathy of the audience 
is better secured by a complete 
understanding of the situation. 



244 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

beer? Because if you haven't, we must 
go back. 

John. You're a nice little article, to 
talk about going back when you kept 
me a quarter of an hour after time! 
They're all right! 

Dot. I declare I wouldn't come without 
the veal and ham pie, and things, and the 
bottles of beer, for any money! Regu- 
larly, once a fortnight, since we have been 
married, John, we've made our little 
picnic here. If anything were to go 
wrong with it, I should almost think we 
were never going to be lucky again! 

John. It was a kind thought, in the 
first instance, and I honor you for it, 
little woman. 

Dot. My dear John ! don't talk of hon- 
oring me — my gracious! 

John. By the by — that old gentle- 
man — he's an odd fish — I can't make 
him out — I don't believe there's any 
harm in him. 

Dot. Not at all — I'm sure there's none 
at all. 

John {with meaning). I'm glad you 
feel so certain — because it's a confirma- 
tion to me. It's curious he should have 
taken it into his head to ask leave to go on 
lodging with us, ain't it? Things come 
about so strangely. 

Dot {almost aside). So very strangely. 

John. However, he's a good natured The mystery increases, and still 
. . ., , . John is unsuspicious, 

old gentleman and pays as a gentleman, 

doesn't he? Why, Dot! what are you 

thinking about? 

Dot {starting). Thinking of, John! 
I — I was listening to you. 

John. Oh! that's all right. I was 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 245 



afraid from the look of your face I had 
set you thinking about something else. 

Dot. Oh! no, John, no! But here 
comes Caleb and Bertha! now they shall 
help us put the veal and ham pie and 
things, and bottles of beer, all in order! 

(Enter Caleb and bertha, R.) 

Cal. Halloa, John! here you are then! 
and missus, too. How d'ye do, mum? 

Ber. (going to dot). Dear Mary! 

Cal. The rest of the company will 
be here directly. The potatoes is all 
right — you never see such picturs — I 
don't think I could make any half so 
natural, not if dolls wouldn't have nothing 
else in their kitchens. Ah! (A knock.) 
There's May and her mother, and Gruff 
&Tackleton! Come in — come in! 

(Enter tackleton with may fielding on 
one arm, and mrs. fielding on the 
other, wearing a calash over her cap, 
which is very fine, tackleton is 
carrying a parcel. Caleb receives 
them awkwardly.) 

Tac. Well, we're come. I can't sup- 
pose you wanted me much, though. 

Dot (going to may). May! my dear 
old friend! what a happiness to see 
you! 

(They embrace.) 

Tac. Ah! that's it — women always 
are so deuced affectionate before people 
— it's all trick — only to make us envious 
don't you think so, Perrybingle? 

John. No, I don't! I call that as 
pleasant a sight as a man might see in a 
long day. Their faces quite set one 



246 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

another's off. They ought to have been 
born sisters. 

May (to bertha). And are you quite 
well and happy, Bertha? 

Ber. Quite, dear May! How can I 
be otherwise when you are here? 

Cal. Bless me! I'm quite nervous; 
I feel as if somebody was pulling a string 
and making me jump all ways at once. 
I'll go and get the potatoes. (Exit R.) 

Tac. There, there's a leg of mutton. 
(Puts it on table.) And there's a tart. 
Ah! you may stare, but we don't mind a 
little dissipation when our brides are 
in the case. I haven't been married a 
year, you know, John. 

Dot (aside). Spiteful creature. 
John. Come, let us begin dinner. 
(Placing the chairs.) You have not 
driven along the road three or four miles; 
I'm hungry. 

Cal. (enters with a bowl of smoking 
potatoes, R.) You shan't be long, John, 
you shan't be long. There they are — 
look at 'em — it's almost a shame to eat 
'em. Now, sit down, sit down. You 
there, mum, if you please — (To MRS. 
fielding.) — and you there — (To tac- 
kleton.) Perhaps, too, sir, you'd like 
May next you — it's natural you should. 
And, Mrs. Perrybingle, you'll go to the 
side of your old friend, John here; and 
Bertha next to me. There we are, beau- 
tiful! 

Dot. Oh! how comfortable this is! 
It seems but yesterday, May, that we 
were at school; and now to think you are 
quite a woman grown ! 

May. And you, Dot — married! 




a -^wm ^ WARarcKFJM 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 249 



John. Yes; and got a baby! 

Dot. Now, John! 

John. Well! is it anything to be 
ashamed of? I always thought 

Dot {interrupting him). You dear, 
good, awkward John; there, take some 
pie, and there's a nice bit of egg! 
And now don't talk with your mouth 
full! 

Cat. But you, May; you don't eat 
anything. 

Dot. Oh! May's in love, you know, 
Caleb; and people in love are never 
hungry. Bless you, it wouldn't be proper; 
I never was. 

Tac. Perhaps you were never in love. 
Ha! ha! 

Dot (imitating his hollow laugh). Ha! 
ha ! what a funny man you are. (A side.) 
He looks about as much in his own ele- 
ment as a fresh young salmon on the top 
of the pyramid! 

Mrs. F. (gravely). Ah! girls are girls, 
and bygones bygones; and as long as young 
people are young and thoughtless, they'll 
behave as young and thoughtless people 
do. 

Dot. Dear May, to talk of those merry 
school-days makes one young again. 

Tac. Why you ain't particularly old 
at any time, are you? 

Dot. Look at my sober, plodding hus- 
band, there. He adds twenty years to 
my age, at least; don't you, John? 

John. Forty! 

Dot. How many you'll add to May's 
I'm sure I don't know; but she can't be 
less than a hundred years of age on her 
next birthday. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



Tac. Ha'.hal (Aside.) I could twist 
her neck like a sparrow's. 

Dot. Dear, dear, only to remember how 
we used to talk at school about the hus- 
bands we should choose. I don't know 
how handsome and young, and how gay 
and how lively mine was to be. And as 
to May's; oh! dear: I don't know whether 
to laugh or cry, when I think what 
silly girls we were. 

Tac. Ah! you couldn't help your- 
selves; for all that you couldn't resist 
us, you see. Here we are! here we are! 
Where are your gay young bridegrooms 
now? 

Dot. Some of them are dead, and 
some of them forgotten. Some of them, 
if they could stand among us at this 
moment, would not believe we were the 
same creatures, or that we could forget 
them so. No, no, they would not believe 
one word of it. 

John. Why, Dot, little woman, what 
are you thinking of? Come, come, I 
think w r e are slighting the bottled beer. 
I'll give a toast. "Here's to to-morrow 
(they pass the beer around) the wedding- 
day;" and we'll drink a bumper to it. 

Cal. Yes, the wedding-day. 

All. The wedding-day; the wedding- 
day. 
(bertha gets up and leaves the table.) 

John. Well, this is all very well; but 
I must be stirring. I have got several 
parcels to deliver now. 

Cal. But you won't be long, John? 
John. Oh! no; the old horse has had a 
bait as well as myself, and we shall soon 
get over the ground. 



The audience not only under- 
stand how Caleb has deceived 
Bertha, but they see what 
Caleb has not yet seen; namely, 
that the result of his deception 
in regard to Tackleton has led 
Bertha to love the unworthy 
toy merchant. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 251 



Cal. Well, good-bye, John. 

John. Good-bye — good-bye, all! 
(To baby.) Good-bye, young shaver. 
Time will come, I suppose, when you'll 
turn out into the cold, my little friend, 
and leave your old father to enjoy his 
pipe and his rheumatics in the chimney- 
corner — eh! where's Dot? 

Dot (starting). I'm here, John. 

John (claps his hands). Come, come, 
where's the pipe? 

Dot. I forgot the pipe, John. I'll fill 
it directly. 

(Takes the pipe from his coat.) 

John. Forgot the pipe! Was such 
a wonder ever heard of? Why, what a 
clumsy Dot you are this afternoon. 
I could have done it better myself, I 
verily believe. 

Tac. I'll go with you, John Perry- 
bingle, a little way if you'll take me. 
I've got to go down the town. 

John. Oh! willingly, willingly! Good- 
bye, Caleb; good-bye, all! I shall be 
back very soon. 

All. Good by e , John ! 

(Exeunt john and tackleton.) 

Dot. And now, Tilly, bring me the 
precious baby — and whilst you help 
May put the things to rights, and do 
everything she tells you, I shall sit with 
Mrs. Fielding at the fire. 

Mrs. F. I should have sat by fire- 
places of a very different kind if people had 
done by other people as the first people 
ought to do, especially in the Indigo trade. 

Dot (shaking her head). Ah, I'm 
sure you would. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



Mrs. F. But when a friend asks any 
one to befriend that friend's friend, and 
the friend's friend does not act as such, 
we must put up with what other friends 
have to offer us. 

Dot. Yes, it's very true, ma'am. But 
now (pushing a chair) sit down here, and 
while baby is in my lap, perhaps you will 
tell me how to manage it, and put me 
right upon twenty points where I am as 
wrong as can be. Won't you, Mrs. 
Fielding? 

Mrs. F. I see no objection; al- 
though before that occurrence with the 
Indigo, which I always thought would 
happen and told Mr. F. so often, but he 
wouldn't believe me, I never managed rny 
babies at all, but had proper persons, 
whom we paid. My husband was quite 
enough for me to manage. 

Dot. Ah, I should think so. 

(dot seats herself upon a stool with baby, 
near the fire, and close to mrs. field- 
ing, may and tilly are putting the 
room to rights. Caleb and bertha 
come forward.) 

Cal. Bertha, what has happened? 
How changed you are my darling, and in 
so short a time. What is it? Tell 
me. 

Ber. (bursts into tears). Oh! father 
— father — my hard, hard fate ! 

Cal. But think how cheerful, and 
how happy you have been, Bertha! 
How good and how much loved by many 
people, although I know, to be — to be 
blind, is a great affliction — but 

Ber. I have never felt it in its fulness. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 253 

Oh! my good, gentle father, bear with 
me, if I am wicked. This is not the 
sorrow that so weighs me down. 

Cat. {aside). I cannot understand 
her. What does this mean? 

Ber. Bring her to me. May — bring 
May. (may, hearing it, comes toward 
her and touches her arm. bertha seizes 
her by the hands.) Look into my face, 
dear heart, sweet heart! Read it with 
your beautiful eyes, and tell me if truth 
is written on it? 

May. Dear Bertha, yes. 

Ber. There is not in my soul a wish, 
or thought, that is not for your good, 
bright May. Every blessing on your 
head light upon your happy course! not 
the less, my dear May — not the less, 
my bird — because, to-day, the knowl- 
edge that you are to be his wife has 
wrung my heart almost to breaking. 

Cal. Is it possible — she loves him, 
then — Tackleton ! 

Ber. Father — May — Mary ! Oh ! for- 
give me that it is so, for the sake of all 
he has done to relieve the weariness of my 
dark life, and for the sake of the belief 
you have in me, when I call Heaven to 
witness that I could not wish him married 
to a wife more worthy of his goodness. 

Cal. Gracious Heaven! is it possible! An ironical situation: Caleb's de- 
T , . , , , , ,, ception defeats its own end. 

Have I deceived her from her cradle to 
break her heart at last! 

Dot (who has been listening, advances) . 
Come, come, dear Bertha! come away 
with me. Give her your arm, May — so ! 
— how composed she is, you see, already, 
and how good it is of her to mind us. 
(Kisses her.) There, dear — come and 



254 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

sit by us. Stop; I hear some footsteps 
I know. 

Ber. (starts). Whose — step is that? 

Cat. Whose — why, it's John's. 

(Enter JOHN.) 

Dot. Why, John — how soon you 
have returned. 

John. Well — ain't you glad of it, 
Dot ! I met young Hobbins in the street, 
and he is going to take the cart on, and 
call for us on his way back. 

Ber. But whose is the other's step 
— that of a man's — behind you? 

Cat. She's not to be deceived. 

John. Why, who should I overtake, 
but our old deaf gentleman, who'd been 
up town to buy some things; so I brought 
him along with me. Come along, sir, 
you'll be welcome, never fear! — (The 
stranger enters.) — He's not so much a 
stranger that you haven't seen him once, 
Caleb. You'll give him house-room till 
we go? 

Cat. Oh! surely, John; and take it as 
an honor. 

John. He's the best company on earth 
to talk secrets in. I have reasonable 
good lungs, but he tries 'em, I can tell 
you. Sit down, sir. All friends here, 
and glad to see you. 

Cal. What can we do to entertain 
him, John? 

John. Oh! nothing! A chair in the 
corner, and leave to sit quite silent and 
look pleasantly about him, is all he cares 
for. He's easily pleased. (Leads the 
stranger to a chair, bertha and may 
are talking; so also, dot and mrs. field- 



THE CRICKET OX THE HEARTH 255 



ing — to dot.) A clumsy Dot she was. 
this afternoon; and yet I like her, some- 
how. See yonder, Dot! 

(Points to STRANGER.) 

Dot. Well, John (confused), what is 
there, there? (Aside.) Can he sus- 
pect anything? 

John. He's — Ha, ha, ha! he's full of 
admiration for you! talks of nobody else. 

Dot. I wish he had a better subject, 
John. 

John. A better subject: there's no 
such thing; come off with the heavy wrap- 
pers and a cozy half hour by the fire. 
(To mrs. fielding.) My humble service, 
mistress. A game at cribbage, you and I? 
That's hearty: the cards and board, Dot. 
And a glass of beer here, if there's any 
left, small wife. 

Dot. Yes, John, plenty! 
(may arranges the table and cards, -whilst 
dot gets the beer.) 

(tackletox enters at the door.) 

Mrs. F. That's quite right, my dear! 
Thank Heaven, I have always found May 
a dutiful child, though I say it, that 
ought not, and an excellent wife she will 
make. 

Tac. Well, I don't doubt that. 

Mrs. F, And with regard to our 
family, though we are reduced in purse — 
I don't say this, sir, out of regard to 
what we are to play for — but though 
we are reduced in purse, we have always 
had some pretentions to gentility. 

John-. Which nobody doubts, who 
knows you, mum, or May either. There's 
a good Dot. (dot brings beer.) And 



256 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



now we will cut for deal. (Cuts.) 
Seven! 

Mrs. F. Nine! 

John. Ah! you are fortunate, mis- 
tress. 

(The stranger, who has been exchanging 
looks with dot, gets up, un perceived, 
and goes toward door, L. dot ap- 
pears anxious to follow him, as he 
beckons to her. This is through the 
dialogue.) 

Mrs. F. Well, I will go to say that 
if the Indigo trade had turned out dif- 
ferent, which, however, is not a pleasant 
subject to allude to, we might have been 
lucky. 

John. Well, here goes. (Deals.) Now, 
I wonder what my fortune will be to- 
night. Hum! (Takes his cards .) What 
ought I to throw out? Here, Dot, Dot. 

(dot is about to follow the stranger, 
who is gone out, she starts at John's 
voice, and turns back.) 

What would you do, Dot? 

Dot (alarmed). I, John; nothing. 

John. Pshaw! you? No, the cards 
— which shall I throw out? (dot takes 
out the cards and throws them down.) 
There, little woman, that will do. I 
won't call you away from May again. 

(dot retires. The others, except tackle- 
ton, who watches her, gather round.) 

Mrs. F. I play, I think. 

(Music — During the game dot has taken 
a candle from the table, timidly, 
and followed the stranger. The 



The sympathy of the audience 
for John is still further in- 
creased by giving them glimpses 
of the conduct of Dot and the 
Stranger which John does not 
have, but it is to be noted that 
these glimpses are not of the 
real situation, but of actions 
which may well be construed 
as evidence of Dot's infidel- 
ity. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



257 



light is seen directly afterward be- 
hind the blind of the large win- 
dow. When it becomes stationary, 
tackleton advances and lays his 
hand upon John's shoulder.) 

Tac. I'm sorry to disturb you, but a 
word immediately. 

John. I'm going to deal! it's a crisis. 

Tac. It is, come here, man, come. 

John {rising and alarmed). What do 
you mean? 

Tac. {leading him from the cards). 
Hush, John Perrybingle; I'm sorry for 
this; I am, indeed! I have been afraid of 
it; I have suspected it from the first. 

John. What is it? 

Tac. Hush. I'll show you. Can you 
bear to look through that window do 
you think? 

John. Why not? {Advancing.) 

Tac. A moment more. Don't com- 
mit any violence: it's of no use. It's 
dangerous, too. You're a strong made 
man; and you might do murder before 
you know it. 

John. What do you mean, I say? 
Stand on one side. 

(john puts tackleton back, and advanc- 
ing to the window, draws back the 
blind. The window looks into a 
warehouse, now lighted, in which are 
seen dot and the stranger, as a 
young man, with his arm around her 
waist — she takes his white wig, and 
laughs, as she puts it on his head.) 

John. What do I see! Dot! Mary! 
faithless! Yes, she adjusts the lie upon 
his head, and laughs at me, as she does it! 



The audience now see only what 
John sees. They are thus 
identified with him, and have 
no more knowledge of the 
true state of affairs than he 
has himself. 



2 5 8 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



(Wildly.) May this hand have power 
enough to dash them to the earth — but, 
no — I cannot — she was my wife — 
gone! lost forever! 

(He falls upon the ground. As the others 
gather round him, tackleton draws 
the curtain. Tableau. 

ACT III. 

Scene. — Same as for Act I. The interior 
o/johnperrybingle's cottage. As 
the curtain rises slowly to plaintive 
music, john Is discovered, sitting by 
the fireplace, with his head upon 
his hands, R. 



John. I have sat here through the 
long, long night, until the stars grew pale, 
and the cold day broke — and the more 
I have thought about her the more I 
feel how desolate I am become — how 
totally the great bond of my life is rent 
asunder. (Music, dot enters mourn- 
fully, and sits down on the little stool at his 
feet. He is about to kiss her, but recol- 
lecting what has occurred, he reclines his 
head upon the table, hiding his face with 
his hands, dot goes out, expressing 
great anxiety.) And he is still beneath 
my roof! — the lover of her early choice; 
of whom she has thought and dreamed; 
for whom she has pined and pined, when 
I fancied her so happy by my side. Oh! 
agony, to think of it! (He sees the gun 
hanging on the wall.) What monstrous 
demon has takenpossession of my thoughts 
and now whispers to me, that it is just 
to shoot this man as I would a wild beast. 



For the audience to lose sympathy 
with Perrybingle during the 
pathetic passages of this act 
would be fatal, and a complete 
understanding of the motives 
underlying Dot's conduct might 
conceivably cause the audience 
to be a bit out of patience with 
John for his readiness to be- 
lieve in Dot's faithlessness. 
Thus, the law that the audience 
must never be deceived is de- 
liberately violated in order to 
conform to the fundamental 
law that interest and sympathy 
should be sustained at any 
cost. 




C^-YIID-K I'-ITHII 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 261 



A step will bring me to his side. I can 
kill him — kill him in his bed! (Takes 
down the gun.) It is loaded — I know 
that; and again the demon has changed 
my thoughts to scourges, to urge me 
on. I will kill him — here in his bed. 

(As he speaks, the fire, which was before 
nearly extinguished, burns up, and 
the cricket is heard. Music. 
He stops and listens for an instant 
— then speaks through the music.) 

The cricket on the hearth! (puts down 
gun) that sh,e so loved — and told me so 
with her pleasant voice. Oh! what a 
voice it was for making household music 
at the fireside of an honest man — and 
she is nothing now to me — her love is 
another's — another's! 

(He bursts into tears, and sits down again 
by the fireside, R. Pause; music 
continues.) 

(A knocking — john starts.) Who is 
that? (Knocking repeated.) Come in. 

(Enter tackleton.) 

Tac. John Perrybingle, my good fel- 
low, how do you find yourself this morn- 
ing? 

John. I have had a poor night, master 
Tackleton, for I have been a good deal 
disturbed in my mind; but it's over now. 
I wish to speak a word or two with you. 

(Enter tilly at D. R. and knock at D. L.) 

You are not married before noon. 
Tac. No, plenty of time — plenty of 
time. 

Til. Ow! If you please I can't make 



262 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

nobody hear. I hope nobody ain't gone 
and been and died, if you please. 

(She knocks at the stranger's door, and 
then exits D. R.) 

Tac. John Perrybingle, I hope there 
has been nothing — nothing rash in the 
night ! 

John. What do you mean? 

Tac. Because as I came here I looked 
into the window of that room. It was 
empty, and he was gone. There has 
been no scuffle, eh? 

John. Make yourself easy. He went 
into that room last night without word 
or harm from me, and nobody has entered 
it since. 

Tac. Oh! well; I think he has got off 
pretty easily. 

John. Look ye, master Tackleton, you 
showed me last night my wife — my 
wife that I love, secretly. 

Tac. And tenderly. 

John. Conniving at that man's dis- 
guise, and giving him opportunities of 
meeting her alone. I think there's no 
sight I wouldn't rather have seen than 
that. I think there's no man in the 
world I wouldn't have rather had to 
show it me. 

Tac. I confess to having had my 
suspicions always; and that has made 
me objectionable here, I know. 

John. But as you did show it me, and 
as you saw her — my wife — my wife — 
that I love, at this disadvantage, it is 
right and just that you should also see 
with my eyes, and look into my breast, 
and know what my mind is upon the 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 263 



subject, for it's settled, and nothing can 
shake it now. 

Tac. Go on, John Perrybingle, I'll 
listen to you. 

John. I am a plain, rough man, with 
very little to recommend me. I am not 
a clever man, as you very well know. 
I am not a young man. I loved my little 
Dot, because I had seen her grow up from 
a child in her father's house; because I 
knew how precious she was; because 
she had been my life for years and years. 
There's many men I can't compare with, 
who never could have loved my little 
Dot like me, I think; but I did not — 
I feel it now, sufficiently consider her. 

Tac. To be sure — giddiness, friv- 
olity, fickleness, love of admiration — 
not considered; all left out of sight, ha! 

John. You had best not interrupt 
me till you understand me; and you're 
wide of doing so. If yesterday I'd have 
struck down that man with a blow 
who dared to breathe a word against 
her, to-day I'd set my foot upon his 
face if he was my brother. 

Tac. I did not mean anything, John 
Perrybingle, go on. 

John. Did I consider that I took 
her, at her age and with her beauty, 
from her young companions and the 
many scenes of which she was the orna- 
ment; in which she was the brightest 
little star that ever shone; to shut her 
up from day to day in my dull house, 
and keep my tedious company? Did I 
consider how little suited I was to her 
sprightly humor, and how wearisome a 
plodding man like me must be to one of 



264 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

her quick spirit? Did I consider that 
it was no merit in me, or claim in me, that 
I loved her when everybody must who 
knew her! Never! I took advantage of 
her hopeful nature and her cheerful 
disposition, and I married her. I wish 
I never had — for her sake, not for mine. 

Tac. For your own as well, John. 

John. I say no. Heaven bless her 
for the constancy with which she has 
tried to keep the knowledge of this from 
me. Poor girl! that I could ever hope 
she would be fond of me — that I could 
ever believe she had tried to keep the 
knowledge of this from me. Poor girl! 
that I could ever hope she would be fond 
of me — that I could ever believe she 
was. 

Tac. She made a show of it — she 
made such a show of it, that, to tell you 
the truth, it was the origin of my mis- 
giving. Look at May Fielding, she never 
pretends to be so fond of me. 

John. I only now begin to know how 
hard she has tried to be my dutiful and 
zealous wife. That will be some comfort 
to me when I am here alone. 

Tac. Here alone? Oh! then you do 
mean to take some notice of this? 

John. I mean to do her the greatest 
kindness, and make her the best repara- 
tion in my power. 

Tac. Make her reparation? There 
must be something wrong here. You 
didn't mean that of course. 

John {seizing him by the collar) . Listen 
to me, and take care you hear me right. 
Listen to me — do I speak plainly? 

Tac. Very plainly, indeed. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 265 

John. As if I meant it? 

Tac. Very much as if you meant it. 

John. I sat upon that hearth last 
night — all night — on the spot where 
she has often sat beside me with her sweet 
face looking into mine. I called up her 
whole life — its every passage — in re- 
view before me; and, upon my soul she is 
innocent, if there is one to judge the 
innocent and the guilty. 

Tac. Very likely, John Perrybingle, 
very likely. 

John. Passion and distrust have left Contrast between John's inter- 

me; nothing but my grief remains. In BS2S?&2'S SSSS* 

an unhappy moment, some old lover, 
forsaken, perhaps for me, against her 
will, returned. In an unhappy moment, 
wanting time to think of what she did, she 
made herself a party to his treachery by 
concealing it. Last night she saw him 
in the interview we witnessed; it was 
wrong; but otherwise than this she is 
innocent, if there is truth on earth. 

Tac. If that is your opinion? 

John. So let her go. Go, with my 
blessing for the many happy hours she 
has given me, and my forgiveness for 
any pang she has caused me. She'll 
never hate me. She'll learn to like me 
better when I am not a drag upon her. 

(dot appears at the hack, pale and anxious, 
D. R. C.) 

This is the day on which I took her, 
with so little thought for her enjoyment, 
from her home. To-day she shall return 
to it, and I will trouble her no more. 
Her father and mother will be here to- 
day — we had made a little plan for 



266 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

keeping it together — and they shall 
take her home. I can trust her there, 
or anywhere. She leaves me without 
blame — and she will live so, I am sure. 
If I should die — I may, perhaps, while 
she is still young — I have lost some 
courage, in a few hours — she'll find that 
I remembered her, and loved her to the 
last ! This is the end of what you showed 
me. Now it's over. 

{Both rising.) 

Dot {coming forward). Oh! no, John, 
not over — do not say it's over yet; 
I have heard your noble words — I could 
not steal away, pretending to be ignorant 
of what has affected me with such deep 
gratitude. Do not say it's over, till the 
clock has struck again. 

John. No hand can make the clock 
which will strike again for me the hours 
that are gone. But let it be so, if you 
will, my dear. It will strike soon. It's 
of little matter what we say. I'd try 
to please you in a harder case than that. 

Tac. Well, I must be off; for, when the 
clock strikes again, it'll be necessary for 
me to be on my way to church. Good 
morning, John Perrybingle, I'm sorry 
to be deprived of the pleasure of your 
company — sorry for the loss and the 
occasion of it, too. 

John. I have spoken plainly? 

Tac. Oh! quite. 

John. And you'll remember what I've 
said? 

Tac. Why, if you compel me to make 
the observation, I'm not likely to forget 
it. 

John. I'll see you into your chaise — 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 267 



I shall not come back here until the 
clock strikes. 

(tackleton makes a rude obeisance to 
dot. 4s he is going out with john, 
tilly enters with the baby, john 
pauses — kisses it — and rushes 
out. dot bursts into tears.) 

Til. (howling). Ow! if you please, 
don't — it's enough to dead and bury 
the baby — so it is, if you please. 

Dot. Will you bring him sometimes 
to see his father, Tilly, when I can't 
live here, and have gone to my old home? 

Til. Ow — w! if you please, don't! 
oh I where has everybody gone and been 
and done with everybody, making every- 
body else so wretched — ow — w — w! 
(As she is going of she meets caleb and 
bertha entering.) 

Cal. Heyday? What's the matter 
here? 

Ber. What ! Mary not at the wedding! 

Cal. (aside to dot). I told her you 
would not be there, mum. I heard as 
much last night — but, bless you, / don't 
care for what they say — / don't believe 
'em. There ain't much of me, but that 
little should be torn to pieces sooner 
than I'd trust a word against you. 

(Takes her hand.) 

Dot. You are very kind, Caleb, very. 

Ber. Mary, where is your hand? Ah, 
here it is! here it is! (Kisses it.) I 
heard them speaking softly among them- 
selves, last night, of some blame against 
you. They were wrong. 

Cal. They were wrong. 

Ber. I know it — I told them so — I 



268 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

scorned to hear a word. There is 
nothing half so real, or so true about me, 
as she is — my sister ! 

Cat. Bertha, my dear, I have some- 
thing on my mind I want to tell you, 
while we three are alone; hear me kindly. 
I have a confession to make to you, my 
darling. 

Ber. A confession, father? 

Cat. I have wandered from the truth, 
and lost myself, intending to be kind to 
you. My dear, blind daughter, hear me, 
and forgive me. 

Ber. Forgive you, father — so good, 
so kind! 

Cal. Your road in life was rough, my 
poor one, and I meant to smooth it for 
you. I have altered objects, changed the 
characters of people, invented many 
things that never have been, to make you 
happier — Heaven forgive me — and sur- 
rounded you with fancies. 

Ber. But living people are not fancies, 
father, you can't change them. 

Cal. I have done so, Bertha. There 
is one person that you know, my dove ! 

Ber. Oh! father, why do you say I 
know ! What, and whom do / know — I, 
who have no leader — I, so miserably 
blind! 

Cal. The marriage that takes place 
to-day, May's marriage, is with a sordid, 
stern, grinding man; a hard master to 
you and me, my dear, for many years; 
ugly in his looks, and in his nature; cold 
and callous always — unlike what I have 
painted him to you, in everything, my 
child, in everything. 

Ber. Oh! why did you ever fill my 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 269 

heart so full, and then come in, like 
death, and tear away the objects of my 
love? Oh! Heaven, how blind I am, 
how helpless, and alone ! Mary tell me 
what my home is — what it truly is. 

Dot. It is a poor place, Bertha, very 
poor and bare, indeed the house will 
scarcely keep out wind and rain another 
winter. It is as roughly shielded from 
the weather, Bertha, as your poor father 
in his sackcloth coat. 

Ber. (leading dot aside). And the 
presents, Mary, that came at my wish; 
who sent them, did you? 

Dot. No! 

Ber. (shaking her head, presses her hands 
to her eyes). Dear Mary, a moment more, 
look across the room where my father 
is, and tell me what you see. 

Dot. I see an old man worn with care 
and work; but striving hard, in many 
ways, for one great sacred object; and 
I honor his gray head, and bless it. 

Ber. (leaves dot, goes toward Caleb, Knowledge of the truth makes 
and falls at his knees). I feel as if my Bertha's love for Caleb all 

J ' . J the stronger, 

sight was restored. There is not a 

gallant figure on the earth that I would 
cherish so devotedly as this — the grayer 
and more worn, the dearer — father. 

Cal. My Bertha! 

Ber. And, in my blindness, I believed 
him to be so different! 

Cal. The fresh, smart father in the 
blue coat, Bertha — he's gone. 

Ber. Nothing is gone, dearest father. 
No; everything is here in you — father 
— Mary 

Cal. Yes, my dear; here she is. 

Ber. There is no change in her. 



2 7 o THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

You never told me anything of her 
that was not true? 

Cal. I should have done it, my dear, 
I fear, if I could have made her better 
than she was. But I must have changed 
her for the worse, if I had changed her 
at all — nothing could improve her, 
Bertha. 

Dot. More changes than you may 
think for may happen, though. You 
mustn't let them startle you too much, 
if they do. Bertha! hark! are those 
wheels upon the road? 

Ber. (listens). Yes, coming very fast. 

Dot (flurried) . I — I — I know you 
have a quick ear; though, as I said, just 
now — (listens) — there are great changes 
in the world — great changes; and we 
can't do better, we can't do better, I say, 
than to prepare ourselves to be surprised 
at hardly anything. They are wheels, 
indeed — coming nearer — nearer! — very 
close — and now you hear them stopping 
at the garden gate — and now you hear 
a step, outside the door — and now — ah ! 
he is here! 

(Music. She utters a cry of delight. The 
stranger, now a young man, 
comes in, throwing his hat upon 
the ground, dot puts both her 
hands before Caleb's eyes.) 

Dot. It's over? 

Edw. Yes. 

Dot. Happily over? 

Edw. Yes. 

Dot. Do you recollect the voice, dear 

Caleb? Did you ever hear the like of 
it before? 




3S_^JtSIS^i2 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 273 



Cal. If my boy in the golden South 
Americas was alive 

Dot. He is alive! {Takes her hands 
away from Caleb's eyes.) Look at 
him! and see where he stands before 
you — healthy and strong ! — your own 
dear son — your own dear, living, loving 
brother, Bertha. {They embrace.) 

john enters, and starts back. 

John. Why — how's this? What does 
this mean? 

Cal. It means, John, that my own boy 
is come back from the golden South 
Americas — him that you fitted out and 
sent away, yourself — him that you were 
always such a friend to. 

John {advances to shake hands and then 
recoils). Edward! was it you? 

Dot. Now tell him all, Edward, tell 
him all, and don't spare me, for nothing 
shall make me spare myself in his eyes 
ever again. 

Edw. I was the man. 

John. And could you steal disguised 
into the house of your old friend? There 
was a frank boy once — how many years 
is it, Caleb, since we heard he was dead, 
and had it proved, as we thought? — 
who never would have done that. 

Edw. There was a generous friend of 
mine once — more a father to me than a 
friend — who never would have judged 
me or any other man, unheard. You were 
he — so I am certain you will hear me 
now. 

John. Well, that's but fair. I will. 

Edw. You must know that when I 
left here a boy, I was in love; and my love 



Revelation of the Stranger's iden- 
tity. 



274 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 



was returned. She was a very young girl, 
who, perhaps (you may tell me), didn't 
know her own mind. But I knew mine, 
and I had a passion for her. 

John. You had — you! 

Edw. Indeed I had, and she returned 
it; I have ever since believed she did, 
and now I am sure she did. 

John. Heaven help me! this is worse 
than all. 

Edw. Constant to her, and returning 
full of hope after many hardships and 
perils, to redeem my part of our old 
contract, I heard, twenty miles away, 
that she was false to me, that she had 
forgotten me, and had bestowed herself 
upon another and a richer man. I had 
no mind to reproach her, but I wished 
to see her, and to prove beyond dispute 
that this was true. That I might have 
the truth — the real truth — observing 
freely for myself, and judging for myself, 
without obstruction on the one hand, or 
presenting my own influence, if I had 
any, before her, on the other, I dressed 
myself unlike myself — you know how — 
and waited on the road, you know where. 
You had no suspicion of me, neither had 
— had she {points to dot) until I whis- 
pered into her ear at the fireside, and 
she so nearly betrayed me. 

Dot {eagerly). But when she knew 
that Edward was alive and had come 
back, and when she knew his purpose — 
she advised him by all means to keep 
his secret close, for his old friend, John 
Perrybingle, was much too open in his 
nature, and too clumsy in all artifice, 
being a clumsy man in general, to keep it 



Complete revelation of the secret, 
which serves an economic pur- 
pose by (i) lightening the bur- 
den of Caleb and Bertha, (2) 
rescuing May from an un- 
happy marriage, and (3) re- 
storing John and Dot to their 
former happy relations. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 275 



from him. And when she — that's me, 
John — told him all, and how his old 
sweetheart had believed him to be dead, 
and how she had, at last, been over- 
persuaded by her mother into a marriage 
which the silly, dear old thing called 
advantageous; and when she — that's 
me again, John — told him they were not 
yet married, though close upon it, and 
that it would be nothing but a sacri- 
fice if it went on, for that there was no 
tove on her side, and when he went nearly 
mad with joy to hear it, then she — 
that's me again — said she would go be- 
tween them, as she had often done before 
in old times, John, and would sound his 
sweetheart, and be sure that what she 
— me again, John — said and thought 
was right, and it was right, John! and 
they were brought together, John! and 
they were married, John, an hour ago! 
and here, here! (Runs to door and brings 
in may) and here's the bride, and Gruff 
& Tackleton may die a bachelor, and I 
am a happy little woman! May God 
bless you! 

John (advancing). My own darling 
Dot! 

Dot (retreats). No, John, no ! hear all — 
don't love me any more, John, till you 
have heard every word I have to say. 
It was wrong to have a secret from you, 
John. I'm very sorry, I didn't think it 
any harm, till I came and sat down by 
you on the little stool last night, but 
when I knew by what was written in 
your face that you had seen me walking 
in the gallery with Edward, and knew 
what you thought, I felt how giddy and 



276 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

how wrong it was. But, oh! dear John, 
how could you, could you think so? 

John. Little woman! Dot! How 
could I, indeed? 

Dot. Don't love me yet, please, John, 
not for a long time yet. When I was sad 
about this intended marriage, dear, it 
was because I remembered May and 
Edward such young lovers, and knew 
that her heart was far away from Gruff 
& Tackleton. You believe that now, 
don't you, John? 

John. I do, I do. (Advances.) 

Dot. No, keep your place, John. When 
I laugh at you, as I sometimes do, John, 
and call you clumsy, and a dear old 
goose, and names of that sort, it's be- 
cause I love you, John, so well, and 
take such pleasure in your ways, and 
wouldn't see you altered in the least 
respect to have you made a king to-mor- 
row. 

Cal. Hooraw! hooraw! my opinion! 

Dot. When I first came home here I 
was half afraid I mightn't learn to love 
you every bit as well as I hoped, and 
prayed I might; but, dear John, every 
day, and every hour, I loved you more 
and more; and if I could have loved you 
better than I do, the noble words I heard 
you say this morning would have made 
me, but I can't; all the affection I had 
— it was a great deal, John — I gave 
you, as you well deserved, long, long 
ago, and I have no more left to give. 
Now, my dear husband, take me to your 
heart again. That's my home, John; and 
never, never think of sending me to any 
other. 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 277 



(She rushes into his arms; at this moment 
tackleton enters.) 

Tac. Why, what the devil's this, John 
Perrybingle? There's some mistake! I 
beg your pardon, sir (to edward). I 
haven't the pleasure of knowing you; 
but if you can do me the favor to spare 
me that young lady; she has rather a 
particular engagement with me this morn- 
ing. 

Edw. But I can't spare her — I 
couldn't think of it. 

Tac. What do you mean, you vaga- 
bond! 

Edw. I mean that as I can make al- 
lowance for your being vexed, I am as 
deaf to harsh discourse this morning as 
I was to all discourse last night. 

Tac. I don't understand you. 

Edw. I am sorry, sir (holding out 
may's ring finger), that the young lady 
can't accompany you to church; but 
as she has been there once this morning, 
perhaps you will excuse her. 

(tackleton looks at ring, scratches his 
ear, and takes a little parcel con- 
taming a ring from his pocket.) 

Tac. Miss Slowboy, will you have 
the kindness to throw that in the fire? 
(She does so.) Thank'ee! 

Edw. It was a previous engagement, 
quite an old engagement, that prevented 
my wife from keeping her appointment 
with you, I assure you. 

May. Mr. Tackleton will do me jus- 
tice to acknowledge that I revealed it to 
him faithfully; and that I told him 
many times I never could forget it. 



2 78 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

Tac. Oh! certainly, oh! to be sure! 
oh! it's all right, it's quite correct! 
Mrs. Edward Plummer, I infer 

Edw. That's the name. 

Tac. Ah! I shouldn't have known 
you, sir ! I give you joy, sir! 

Edw. Thank'ee. 

Tac. Mrs. Perrybingle, I'm sorry you 
haven't done me a very great kindness, 
— but, upon my life, I'm sorry — I'm 
sorry — you are better than I thought 
you! John Perrybingle, I'm sorry — 
you understand me, that's enough. It's 
quite correct, ladies and gentlemen all, 
and perfectly satisfactory. Good morn- 
ing! 

{Exit, C.) 

John. Now we'll make a day of it, 
if ever there was one! 

Dot. And we'll have such a feast, 
and such a merrymaking! Dear John, 
I hardly know whether to laugh or cry. 
My goodness, John, there's old Mrs. 
Fielding at the door all this time, and 
nobody has asked her out of the chaise. 
Go and fetch her in. (Exit John, C.) 
And Caleb, run to father's and bring him 
in, and mother, too, and anything they 
have got to eat and drink that's ready. 
(Exit caleb.) And May, spare her for 
a few minutes, Edward, there's the tub 
of ale in the cellar, and there's the key; 
and Bertha shall look after these vege- 
tables; and we've a nice ham! What 
a happy, happy, little woman I mean to 
be! (Bustles about with the others, 
moving tables, plates, etc.) 

(Enter john and mrs. fielding.) 



THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 279 



John. There, mum, there's your son- 
in-law, and a fine feller he is ! 

Mrs. F. That ever I should have lived 
to see this day! Carry me to my grave! 

John. Not at all, mum; you're not 
dead, nor anything like it, nor won't be, 
we hope, for many a year to come. There 
let them tell their own story, and get 
out of their scrape as they can, and as I 
am sure they will. 

(He brings edward, may, and mrs. 
fielding together, and pushes them 
toward the fireplace. Enter caleb, 
with dot's father and mother and 
one or two neighbors. They em- 
brace DOT.) 

Cal. How d'ye do, everybody? Here 
they are, and here are we — and won't 
we be jolly? Halloo ! who are you? 

(Enter a man, with two parcels.) 

Man. Mr. Tackleton's compliments, 
and as he hasn't got no use for the cake 
himself, perhaps you'll eat it. There 
it is. 

Cal. Law! 

Man. And Mr. Tackleton's compli- 
ments, and he's sent a few toys for the 
baby — they ain't ugly. 

Dot. Why, what can this mean! 

(Enter tackxeton.) 

Tac. Mrs. Perrybingle, it means this 
— I'm sorry, more sorry than I was this 
morning. John Perrybingle, I'm sour by 
disposition, but I can't help being sweet- 
ened, more or less, by coming face to 
face with such a man as you, Caleb. 



2 8o THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH 

That unconscious little nurse gave me 
a broken hint last night, of which I have 
found the thread. I blush to think how 
easily I might have bound you and your 
daughter to me, and what a miserable 
idiot I was when I took her for one. 
Friends, one and all, my house is very 
lonely to-day; I have not so much as a 
cricket on my hearth; I have scared 
them all away; be gracious to me — let 
me join this happy party. Do! 

John. Of course, and heartily glad we 
are to see you! we'll make you so jolly 
that you sha'n't believe you're yourself! 

Dot. John, you won't send me home 
this evening, will you! 

(john embraces her.) 

Edw. A dance ! a dance ! Bertha, here's 
your harp, now play us your liveliest tune. 
Won't you dance, Mary? (dot shakes 
her head.) Nor you, John? No. Then 
here goes! 

(BERTHA plays the harp. Music. MAY Total relaxation of the dramatic 

and edward get up and dance for a strain. 
little time alone. Then john throws 
his pipe away, takes dot around 
the waist, and joins them. Pres- 
ently TACKLETON goes OJf With 

mrs. fielding; then dot's father 
and mother join in — lastly caleb 
and miss slowboy, and Neighbors. 
General Dance. 

the end. 




WASTES KIgCS>W?«13 



APPENDIX IV 



Plays 
Recommended for Study 



APPENDIX IV 

PLAYS RECOMMENDED FOR STUDY 

i. AS A MAN THINKS, by Augustus Thomas; 
Dufheld & Company, New York. 

2. CANDIDA, by George Bernard Shaw; Bren- 
tano's, New York. 

3. THE CLIMBERS, by Clyde Fitch; Macmillan 
Company, New York. 

4. THE GREAT DIVIDE, by William Vaughn 
Moody; Macmillan Company, New York. 

5. THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST, 
by Oscar Wilde; Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston. 

6. THE MAN FROM HOME, by Tarkington and 
Wilson; Harper & Brothers, New York. 

7. THE MELTING-POT, by Israel Zangwill; Mac- 
millan Company, New York. 

8. THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE, by Charles 
Rann Kennedy; Harper & Brothers, New York. 

9. SWEET LAVENDER, by Arthur W. Pinero; 
Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston. 

10. YOUNG MRS. WINTHROP, by Bronson How- 
ard; Samuel French, New York, 
285 



